


The Room Next to Mine

by leslielol



Category: Justified
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Friendship, Gen, Gun Violence, M/M, Roommates, Too Many Words, general sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2017-12-27 22:15:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 104,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leslielol/pseuds/leslielol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's the kind of daddy Raylan Givens knows he doesn't want to be, and there's the kind he doesn't want to default into being. Winona's daughter doesn't have any blood feuds yet, so Raylan knows his efforts should begin and end with his bank account.<br/>He's a man who needs to save a little money. And he knows a guy with a room to rent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jaegerpilot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaegerpilot/gifts), [ransoned](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ransoned/gifts).



> \- FOR MY NEW TUMBLR PALS.  
> \- Updates may be rare and short. At the moment, there’s no real story arc devised for this. Just jollies.  
> \- Soundtrack to the entire fic is the album “Divine Providence” by Deer Tick. Give it a listen, it’s a hoot!  
> \- No offense meant to vegans.  
> \- No offense meant to the creators of Justified.

When Tim saw the long line of cars parked along Art’s street, he slowed and pulled his SUV into a small lot situated next to a picnic area. He sat in his car a moment, suddenly tired despite the afternoon hour and fitful sleep the night before. He studied the view outside his car: the swingset and rustic tables, the perfectly trimmed hedges and razor-sharp lines of trees (so formed, Tim liked to imagine, as neat as lines of coke enjoyed by the neighborhood housing board members). 

The presence of an entire, wooded picnic area in the suburbs sent his eyes rolling; each lawn was big enough to get lost in, itself. Stepping out of his car, Tim could smell that these were apple trees, of all things. He envisioned neighborhood-organized apple pickings, snot-nosed toddlers in mittens, and bake sales. 

He _couldn’t_ imagine Art living in such a place, but figured the change of scenery came with the notice of retirement and his single-minded desire to close a career-haunting case. Tim was drawn back to the nice neighborhood Art used to hold these cookouts at--small and quaint, the same house he and Leslie had raised their daughters in, on a street called something precious like Cherry or Mulberry or Rosy Little Asshole. 

Stuffing his wallet into his back pocket, his keys in front, and palming his phone, Tim started down the street. He took easy steps and balanced on the curb until a car approached. Out of habit, he’d stop and watch the thing pass. On the third Prius, Tim had to force himself to ignore the imagined threat and soldier on. 

Tim didn’t know a soul in the office who didn’t enjoy Art’s cookouts; Art manned a grill as though the hand of god was guiding him. The things he did to meat could make vegetarians weep and vegans swallow their own hubris.

To their credit, Tim did see the odd familiar face--Joanie, a Marshal of twelve years, and Gus who managed building security--but the crowd was largely composed of Leslie’s friends from church and other social circles, none of which Tim or any of the Marshals intersected. It was hardly a matter of minutes before Rachel found him out of necessity. 

“Drink with me,” she said, pressing a chilled beer into his hand. “And don’t you dare ask whether or not I’ve seen _The Help._ ”

Tim grinned but followed her order without protest. Rachel was wearing a pair of dark jeans and a blindingly white tank top; Tim wanted to tell her she looked like a cop from one of the _CSIs_ , but held his tongue, certain he could come up with a compliment actually worth her time. 

Grandchildren splashed about in the pool while mothers, aunts, and grandmothers in sweeping sun hats guarded their every move. Young couples held hands like they meant never to let go, and teenagers cradled iPhones with the same degree of affection. 

It was a south-of-the-border themed cookout, which meant while Art was still grilling chicken and steaks, they were being cut to fit into taco shells and laced with hot sauce and cheese. They smelled delicious, and Tim broke away from Rachel’s charge to stalk a table piled high with food, and loaded up an entire plateful to share with Rachel. When he next found her, she’d claimed a small table and brought a plate of chips and dip, as well as two more beers. 

It was sunny and warm, and as Tim noted the sunglasses perched atop Rachel’s head, he felt sorry he wasn’t mindful enough to bring his own. He’d been told he looked especially surly when squinting, and didn’t doubt it. 

Sombreros were planted on tables, brightly colored and meant for decoration. Tim could feel the sun burning a hot stripe down the back of his neck, so he plucked the one from their table and put it on. It was bright green and embellished with gold and blue tassels. Rachel smiled at him. 

“Matches your shirt,” she said, and Tim had to look down at himself because he’d only grabbed whatever was clean. The white shirt was a little snug, short-sleeved and striped in pale blue. 

“I do look great,” Tim agreed, eyes shining with childish mirth. 

“Beautiful,” Rachel gushed, rolling her eyes and loading up a tortilla chip with spicy salsa. 

“So,” he began, his mouth half-full of steak and cheese. He took a moment to survey the crowd again, finding it easier now that he wasn’t in it. “What is this again? Looks more like Leslie’s thing than Art’s.”

“No kidding,” Rachel said. She was still looking over her shoulder for the group of catty women she’d escaped from into Tim’s company. “Mostly it’s friends from her church, and their new neighbors. I think Art invited the office so he’d have someone to talk to.”

“He don’t go to his wife’s church?” It was a useless question; Tim only wanted to press Rachel for her opinion on the matter. 

Rachel obliged, offering conspiratorially: “He doesn’t like his... peer group, I guess you could say.” 

Tim looked around, eyeing all the elderly men in pleated khakis and pastel-colored golf shirts.  
“Retirees?”

Rachel nodded. “And that’s about the last thing Art wants to be.”

“You, too.”

Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Come again?”

Tim traded his taco for his beer, took a healthy swig and then kept it close. “He retires, somebody like that blowhard outta Bowling Green will swoop in, fill his seat. Get a good decade there, even. Now, somebody like _you_ gets a few more years under her belt, and that office is as good as yours.” Tim clinked his bottle with Rachel’s, although she hadn’t moved to complete the act--an early and undue congratulations. 

Instead, she’d pressed her lips in a grim line to keep from smiling. “I can’t say I haven’t thought about it.” 

“You’d be great,” Tim mumbled, because honestly--he’d thought about it, too. 

Rachel did smile, then, and Tim decided he’d found the compliment she’d want over praise for her outfit. 

Rachel reached near her neck and caught her ponytail, smoothing her hair with her hands. It was a nervous gesture--so Tim figured--because Rachel might toy with her necklace or sigh, but she never played with her hair. She was either calculating the best, most humble terms of dismissal, or trying to talk herself out of just that. 

“Raylan’d be tapped for that position before I would,” she said, swinging the shiny locks back over her shoulder. She took up her beer with such force that Tim could hear the contents slosh around. She was pissed but determined not to show it, knowing any anger at Raylan was largely displaced. 

Tim made a face. “Shit, no. With the number of investigations on his record? Everybody from LPD to the FBI has it out for him.”

“LPD thinks he’s Jesus with a shotgun.” 

“Hair’s getting there.”

“Oh, my god,” Rachel snorted gleefully and shook her head, imagining it. Then, with a tiny nod to Tim, she noted, “Got yours cut short.”

“Yeah.” Tim sort of grimaced, then caught a dribble of hot sauce escaping the corner of his taco and leaking down the side of his hand. “Not my usual girl.”

Rachel let him take a bite before asking coyly, “Why was that?” 

She looked at him like she already knew, and Tim didn’t doubt she had some grasp on the situation--maybe a little more than he realized. He still felt weird about the whole thing--tracking down Mark’s killer and seeing that the man got what was coming to him. Laid out plainly, it was a messy stunt--practically something Raylan would do. And yet, it all sort of fell into place and Tim allowed himself to believe he hadn’t gone out of his way to kill a man. 

Of course, the facts were what they were, even if no one else had drawn the details together.  
After shooting Colton Rhodes, Tim had returned to work. Mark was heavy on his mind--even more so than the morning Tim had gone to see his last bloody stand--and twice, Tim had to stop himself from giving the LPD detective a call. The office was a blur of activity with Raylan parading around Ellen May, as if she hadn’t been Tim’s find. He didn’t care. He was too consumed with the idea that he’d assisted in a man’s suicide to even _think_ about laying claim to the whore and elbowing in on Raylan’s victory dance.

During his lunch break not a day later, Tim sat in his car in the parking lot, unable to fathom what was left to do with himself. _Do something, anything._ It slowly dawned on him that he’d have a funeral to attend. He already had the uniform for such an occasion, so all that remained was a regulation haircut.

“I just didn’t want it long anymore,” Tim shrugged, but knew he’d given his answer just a second too late. He wet his lips and went for broke, leaning in conspiratorially over the patio furniture and colorful paper plates: “And then I wanted to have a conversation about it at a cookout. Everything has been leading to this, Rachel.”

He gave her a cocksure smile and she dropped the subject. 

“Let’s get back to talkin’ shit about Raylan. Ain’t that why Art has these things?”

Rachel smirked and, like a regular Vanna White, waved an upturned hand at the fortune of food and drink adorning tables and filling faces. “I think it’s to reward us for all our hard work.”

“That doesn’t sound like Art,” Tim scoffed, playing the skeptic. He returned Rachel’s smile anyway, then accompanied it with an eye-roll as something caught his eye. “Speak of the holy ghost.”

Rachel turned in her seat and saw Raylan. 

The jeans, hat, and swagger were all from a different era. The shirt was from Eddie Bauer, though. Tim recognized it from a catalogue he received like clockwork every month since buying a new liner for his sleeping bag nearly a year ago. On Raylan, the dirt-colored shirt looked like a second coat of skin had been painted on and detailed with three useless buttons at the throat. 

Spotting the only familiar faces in the yard--though hardly the only two angled his way--Raylan tipped his hat. Tim tipped his sombrero in return. 

“I like that look for you, Tim,” Raylan said, coming to a stop at their table and bringing only a sliver of shade in his wake. 

“Oh, good,” Tim droned. “Personally I thought I looked like a total asshole.”

“The key is to wear it with confidence,” Raylan stipulated while bringing his long legs to fit under the patio table. His left knee knocked into Tim’s right. Tim knocked it back. 

“Hey,” Raylan warned, bringing up his right hand to make a show of a fine bottle of bourbon he’d claimed off Art’s grill station. In his other hand, he brandished a small stack of three plastic dixie cups. “You’re gonna wanna be nice to me.” 

“How nice I gotta be?” Tim asked while running his foot slowly along the inside of Raylan’s ankle and calf. The gesture was a touch too severe, and Raylan laughed at the effort. “You just say when.” 

“I appreciate the enthusiasm,” Raylan said, uncapping the bottle. After a moment he added, “when,” and filled three cups. 

“You’re late,” Rachel admonished while making more space for Raylan at their small table. She accepted the bourbon and took a small, appreciative sip as Tim and Raylan each emptied their cups. While she was always game for after-hours drinks, Rachel didn’t have Raylan or Tim’s appetite for _a few too many._

After pushing his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, Raylan spared her an indelicate nod as if to say, _No shit. I got the same e-vite you did._ “Harlan ain’t exactly a block away.”

Rachel wrinkled her nose. “How long does it take to fix a wall?” 

Raylan snatched the last remaining taco from Tim and Rachel’s plate, and didn’t answer. 

“Shit,” Tim said, tipping his sombrero back and folding his arms across his chest. He’d poured himself a second helping of bourbon, but let it rest. The wicker of the patio chair crackled as he leaned further into it. “You’re living there. Vacation’s over, man. Suspension’s up this week.”

“You counting down the days?” Raylan asked through a mouthful of steak. 

“Days, hours, minutes,” Tim assured. “You can have the last piece of chocolate from my advent calendar.” 

Rachel, making a point to ignore Raylan and Tim’s idle teasing, broke in with her sweet drawl, touched though it was with notes of concern. “Are you really living there, Raylan?”

“Call me crazy, but going back to Lindsey’s doesn’t hold the same charm.”

“Well you haven’t got much more she can steal from you,” Rachel chided. She didn’t mean to be unkind, but among Raylan’s storied sexual escapades, Lindsey had never been a favorite of hers.

“Have you got both your kidneys, Raylan?” Tim asked, grinning when Raylan set his jaw and forced himself to take a calming breath. 

“Fuck you both,” Raylan said with mock cheerfulness. “I just came here to eat tacos.” 

Rachel rolled her eyes and left the table, only to return with another plate and a question: “Why not move back into the hotel?”

She figured Raylan would be aching to get back there, out of Harlan, away from his childhood home, and free of whatever was left of Arlo Givens. Granted, her mind had been on other things while she stood in a living room with Raylan and Drew Thompson as helicopters circled their position, but something stuck with her: Raylan’s obvious discomfort. 

He was usually one to make himself at home--dressing casually in the office, tipping that damn cowboy hat over his face to catch some sleep during a stakeout, or resting on the dirtied laurels of his last name to get information out of Harlan County. But he stood agitated and all-too-foreign in the space he’d grown up in, willing himself not to belong. Rachel could help but imagine the last three weeks of Raylan’s suspension: in all that time, had he ever once felt at ease?

“I basically lived at Lindsey’s for free,” Raylan said, more-or-less confirming his living arrangements as a fiscal issue. Then, with a touch more open honesty than either of his fellow marshals were used to hearing from the gunslinger, he drove the point home: “I still want to provide for Winona and the baby.”

Even saying it with a dixie cup of aged bourbon in hand, Raylan still managed to appear sincere. 

Rachel offered a tight smile in response; Tim ducked his head. Although unplanned, they all took up their dixie cups as if to show their endorsement of Raylan’s effort. 

It was a extra little taste of that smooth, stomach-warming drink that loosened Rachel’s lips and had her speaking out to Raylan’s cause mere seconds after the moment had passed.

"Tim's got an extra room." 

Tim’s head turned up sharply and he stared at Rachel. _Hard._ He managed to look downright nasty even with a glob of cheese and chicken balled up in his cheek. 

Rachel returned the stare with just as much seriousness, but none of the strain. It was one of her many skills: murderous nonchalance. 

Chewing slowly and swallowing, Tim finally acquiesced, “Yeah, I do.” His narrowed eyes were still trained on Rachel, but hers had found Raylan. 

Raylan gave it a second--just _one_ \--to see if Tim would follow up with a swift and damning dismissal. None came. 

He wet his lips and tasted cheddar cheese and steak sauce. 

“It wouldn’t be long-term,” Raylan said, inching into Tim’s line of sight. “I just need to save up some money and get an eye out for property. Hell, if I can sell Arlo’s place, I’ll be out even sooner.”

Still--as if he’d pegged her for the real threat in this situation--Tim’s attention was kept solely on Rachel. It was only when Rachel reached for her beer, took a tiny sip, and made a face as if to ask, _well, don’t you?_ that Tim gave up the fight, and glanced at Raylan. “So any keg parties I ought to have going for us right away, not planned down the road.”

It wasn’t a real question, or an invitation, or technically a _no._

Tim had a sound about him, a way of speaking as if he was half asleep or worse--not paying attention. Knowing the opposite was true made the affliction all the more uneasy. Raylan liked to think Tim knew exactly what he was doing with that voice, so he practically chirped his answer: “That would be best, yes.”

Tim took up his beer and finished it, sighed, and stood from the table. He took the top of the sombrero in his hand, lifted the thing from his head, then laid it to rest on the table. 

“I need... more beer for this.”

Raylan cut Rachel with a sharp look after Tim had gone. “Why’d you do that? Last thing a grown-ass man wants is a roommate.”

Rachel ran an absent hand along her tank top strap. “I don’t hear you shooting down the idea.”

“This grown-ass man wants cheap accommodations.” Raylan took a sip of bourbon and rolled the taste around his tongue like he would with something stronger. It didn’t have the same effect, and instead of a slew of stupid ideas, Raylan was suddenly only prone to this one. “It _would_ be cheaper. And, hell--he lives pretty close to the office, doesn’t he? Save on gas, too.” 

More and more, Raylan liked the idea. It seemed simple and clean, especially in Raylan’s own handcrafted argument in favor of the arrangement. Yet, something stayed Raylan’s desire for Tim’s answer, even if it was in the affirmative. 

It was unlike any favor he’d ever asked of Tim--or anybody, for that matter. Rather than require any active effort, a greater request was being made: the allowance of space, the acceptance of character. Hell--even the sharing of company. 

No, Raylan sure as shit had never asked anyone to share his company. Not in so many words. 

“Shit,” he ground out, frustrated. 

“He’s gonna say yes,” Rachel shrugged, although both Marshals could see their colleague some ways away, staring at a margarita machine like it had personally offended him.

Raylan bumped his knee against Rachel’s. “ _That_ is not the face of a man looking to do me a favor.”

Reaching for the eyewear perched on her head, Rachel remarked pointedly, _“When has he ever said no to you?”_ and then dropped her oversized sunglasses into place. They were a cool pair--perhaps too cool with their horn-rimmed frame and burnt-gold coloration, and it got into Raylan’s head that she’d been shopping with Nick when she’d picked them out. He had to smile at that; Raylan liked Nick. Despite growing up without his parents, he was a funny, grounded, happy kid. 

And Rachel made that happen. 

Something clicked with that assessment--Rachel as a fosterer of families, a... master manipulator.

“You don’t give a shit that he doesn’t want me there,” Raylan realized slowly. Instead of pointing an accusatory finger, he leaned back and marveled at Rachel’s wicked genius. “This ain’t even _about_ me. He ain’t right after the shooting, is he? This ain’t a roommate love connection, you want to get him a live-in babysitter.” 

Rather than show his offense to the idea, Raylan was a little thrilled; it was the first time someone did not see him as a corrupting figure or in dire need of a nanny, himself. The alternative came to mind and dampened Raylan’s victorious spirits--maybe Tim was in such a poor place, even _Raylan_ couldn’t worsen his condition. 

Rachel pursed her lips. She’d been caught, but wouldn’t give in so easily. 

“What makes you think this isn’t for _your_ own good?”

“Because, comparatively, I’ve been a very good boy.” 

Rachel pressed the back of her hand to Raylan’s forehead, as if to check for a fever. Raylan swatted it away and said, “I solved the Harlan equivalent of D.B. Cooper, Rachel. _Mine was the house that cocaine built._ What’s Tim done lately? He killed a guy and blew up a car.” Raylan wet his lips. “Stop playin’ me, Rachel.”

Sighing, Rachel came clean. “I just think he needs to know who his friends are.” 

“He’s gonna learn the wrong lesson if your plan is for us to share a bathroom.” 

Raylan followed Rachel’s stare to where it hit squarely at the back of Tim’s head. 

“He went to a funeral,” Rachel murmured. “After the shooting. Military dress, the whole thing.”

“Rhodes’?” Raylan asked, incredulous. He’d heard _multiple_ tellings of Tim’s heroics on that stretch of highway--never from Tim, of course, but from the rest of the decoy party. He could understand appreciation of the game, but Tim was too straight-arrow for that, especially when the lives of others were in play. Rachel shrugged a bare shoulder.

“Maybe.” Her lack of response told Raylan plenty: she didn’t know because Tim wouldn’t tell her.

The inclusion of some nugget of truth was a better plan of attack than her sweeping gesture on Tim’s behalf had been. It drew Raylan in, and for as much as he played philosopher cowboy, he was an investigator. And for as well as Tim had defined himself in the barest platitudes-- _former-Ranger-current-Deputy-still-a-sniper, all one word_ \--Raylan had to admit he’d always been a little curious about the man. Raylan raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Rachel, who maintained her unreadable expression. 

Tim’s mental health wasn’t Rachel’s only concern; she remembered how Lindsey had upturned Raylan’s room above her bar, and how Ava and Winona did the same with his life. She’d followed Raylan into his destroyed room, watching as he inched through the space, slow and wary. His disappointment had been palpable, and she’d seen his hapless self sag under the weight of the realization that he’d been had. It was only the once that all that self-destruction came in the form of a torn mattress and ransacked dressed drawers, but his girlfriend troubles followed him everyday to his desk. Tired eyes, hangovers, worry--Rachel had seen it all, and regularly.

Those were the facts Rachel had at her disposal. Raylan didn’t make wise choices in terms of bedfellows, and Tim’s choices were a mystery to her.

When Tim returned, although he had indeed sought out another beer, he awkwardly sat down with a giant frozen margarita. A too-long red straw swam in its icy green depths. 

“What? Darlene made it for me,” Tim said, nodding his head toward the tiny octogenarian manning the drinks table. He lifted it and took a generous gulp.

When he’d sat it back on the table, Rachel spun the straw around towards her, and took a small sip. She pursed her lips and pulled back, eyes bugged. “Jesus, Tim! That’s gotta be 90% tequila.”

“She’s some kind of wizard,” Tim mumbled, again lifting the plastic glass.

“Well?” Rachel pressed, unamused with Tim’s antics. 

Tim dusted a salt crystal from his lip and rested his attention on Raylan. He sighed. “Are you allergic to cats?” he asked, hopeful. “I’ve got a cat.”

Rachel smiled triumphantly as Raylan let loose a loud guffaw. “ _You_ have a cat?”

“I hit him with my car,” Tim explained.

“Tim, that’s not how we treat our pets.”

“Tell Raylan your cat’s name,” Rachel said, blessing Tim with an artful tap on his shin from the toe of her stylish mint green tennis shoe. Despite her earlier confidence, she was nonetheless surprised--and pleased--with Tim’s eventual acquiescence. She could even overlook the blatant _bad decision_ tequila imagery. 

Raylan raised an inquisitive hand. “I’m a bit more interested in how Tim ran over his own cat, actually.”

Tim shook his head a little--as if convinced he could keep the detail from Raylan even if the man moved in. 

Rachel, alternatively, jumped at the chance to tell the tale. “Tim had been working here maybe... one month? Didn’t know the city. I’d given him my number, said to call if he needed anything.”

"I don’t recall gettin’ that treatment," Raylan said, turning to face Rachel with a look of faux astonishment and hurt.

“Hush. The first time he calls me is around 11pm on a Tuesday night,” Rachel grinned and tried to mimic Tim’s voice, but defaulted into _serial killer’s phone call to teen girls from inside the house._ “ _Deputy Brooks, I ran over a cat._ ” 

Raylan laughed openly as Rachel continued, “He'd been driving all night trying to find an all-hours animal hospital. I met him at the clinic in Richmond, only to see him at the counter, hugging this ball of blood and fur wrapped up in his shirt, harassing the receptionist because he wouldn’t give the animal’s name for her to enter into their database. He practically _screams_ at her, _What do you care what his name is?! It’s Tom Hanks! It’s fuckin’ Tom Hanks!_ ” 

Tim rubbed his brow in an effort to obscure his reddening face. It was an embarrassing story, but at the time Tim could only think that in the few months out of active duty, his first kill would be a housepet. Although he hadn’t finished it, he set the margarita aside. 

“He’s a good cat,” Tim said, signaling the end of any more stories. 

Raylan was still chuckling. “Indoor?”

“Yep." Tim found his beer, moved it to his lips and said with a straight face, "Crazy people out there. He could get run over.” 

“Well, I’m sold.”

And there was a moment, barely a second where the joking declaration hung over the trio like a swinging noose, heavy and ominous. Like the good little soldier he was, Tim stepped up and slipped it on.

“Is it just your glowing presence I’m getting here, or...?”

“Winona isn’t going to let me keep the thing overnight.” Raylan’s reply was clipped and followed by a curious sip of Tim’s discarded margarita. 

“She’d be wise not to trust you with her _things,_ ” Rachel ribbed, smiling tentatively.

“The baby,” Raylan self-corrected. “Jane.” 

“Baby Jane,” Tim grinned.

“Or, Janette. Something.”

“Jesus, Raylan. You oughtta know the kid’s name.”

“Janette. It’s going to be Janette. I am 97% certain.”

Tim nodded. “French. That’s nice. A nod to your mom?” 

Raylan hadn’t thought of that; his head had been consumed by Harlan County, Arlo, and all the shit left behind in his old house, between the two. 

The trio split slowly apart, first with Rachel making the rounds to her fellow co-workers, and Raylan getting caught up in a conversation with Art over grilling techniques and the mysterious disappearance of a bottle of bourbon from his grill station.

Tim found Raylan about an hour later.

“I’m heading out,” Tim said, then tossed an empty plastic water bottle into a blue bin set up near the open fence. “You wanna follow, see the place?”

Raylan dropped his hands to rest on his narrow hips and took a moment to consider his fellow Marshal. Tim had the prickly signs of a day without shaving and was squinting to see Raylan against the afternoon sun. His mouth was set in a grim little line, his bottom lip glossy wet with whatever his last drink had been. The bridge of his nose showed signs of sunburn. “You’re serious about this?” 

Tim sucked in a slow breath. “I’m... yeah, I guess.” He cocked his head, reminding Raylan of a weird tick Winona’s yorkie had--endlessly cute, until veterinarians diagnosed darling little Cookie with a darling little brain tumor. “Are _you?_ I get the feeling if it had a sink and a glory hole, you’d just as well live outta your car.”

A grin stretched across Raylan’s face and showed two rows of teeth--miracle rows, his mother had teased. The darndest things she’d ever seen come out of Harlan. “Is a glory hole a feature at your place?”

“Comes standard,” Tim assured. “It’s actually a dual feature with the sink.”

“Mmhmm, and how does it operate? Switch?”

“You’re familiar with the model, then? So convenient,” Tim boasted dryly. “Hours of fun.”

“All right,” Raylan said, nodding. “I’ll follow.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raylan gets the grand tour of Tim's place. T.H. reserves judgment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting, friends! It is much appreciated.

Tim climbed out of his SUV and glanced back at Raylan, who was unfolding his lithe frame from out of his stylish town car. “Behold,” Tim said, using bravado to cover what he suspected were nerves, of all things. 

Raylan took a comical look around the place, swinging his head fully left, then fully right. “Hell, Tim. We just came from the suburbs.”

Hands perched on his hips, Raylan surveyed the neat little red-brick house with a cream-colored door and matching accents around the windows. It was nestled at the end of a keyhole, backed up against a small, sloped, wooded area that emptied out into a field. The lawn was cut just a hair too short, and the flower beds on either side of the steps leading to the front door were unfinished--just mounds of untouched dirt. 

“Aw," Raylan teased. "It’s real cute. Downright storybook.” The little white roof made it appear as though Tim hadn’t finished coloring the picture. Raylan wasn't sure what it was, exactly, that he'd imagined Tim occupied, if not a modest home. A bunker, maybe. 

While Tim made for the front door and searched his pocket for keys, Raylan peaked around the side, noting the severe dip in the landscape, which afforded Tim’s place a small basement and storied deck. Raylan stepped back into line behind Tim, but stood with his back to Tim's to take in the view of the neighborhood. Yards were moderate in size, well-tended, and free of any excess, trash, or children's toys. The study little houses felt established and hardy, occupied still by their original owners. 

“I was gonna put a bush there,” Tim said as Raylan toed the empty expanse of soil where all the other houses along the block had bright, well-tended patches of flowers and plant life. 

“What happened?”

Tim fixed him with a blank look. “I didn’t.”

Raylan followed Tim inside and was suddenly very aware that “seeing the place” was merely a formality. The grand tour was more of Tim’s effort to be mindful of deadlines than Raylan making making any real choice. But, hell--Raylan figured the only real choice had been Rachel’s, saying what she did at Art’s cookout.

He allowed himself a moment to feel like shit about it--the fact that his not having a place to live in Lexington was the result of self-pity and self-indulgence, keeping himself holed away in Harlan for the duration of his suspension. Studying Tim’s gait from behind, Raylan got the feeling he wasn’t the only anxious party. 

To the right of the entrance and facing one of the front windows, there was a completely empty space where a dining table ought to be. 

“Cat sleeps there,” Tim pointed vaguely at the floor, answering Raylan’s unvoiced question.

“Beer?” Tim asked, sidestepping Raylan. 

Raylan declined. 

“Little late to be thinking about overstepping boundaries,” Tim commented, having disappeared beyond the wall separating the kitchen from the small foyer. Raylan heard him crack open a bottle.

Tim’s place was built like the dorm room of a girl Raylan had dated off-and-on in college: two rooms pitted across from one another with a kitchen and shared living space between them, as well as a bathroom off to one side. It felt like an older house, even without all the needless hallways. Raylan eyed the walls and supposed the place could have once had them, and only recently been opened up for more light and space. The hardwood flooring certainly looked new in its seamless application throughout the ground floor. Raylan didn’t ask--or care, really--to see the partial basement, but rightly guessed the washer and dryer were tucked away down there, and that the fine flooring didn’t continue down the narrow steps. 

With a look around the place, Raylan couldn’t quite tell if it was surprisingly spacious, or simply bare. Beyond the kitchen there was a particularly bare living room outfitted with only a nice entertainment system--a big screen television and game console with a couch sat in front of it. Opposite the television, a bookshelf laden with novels and the odd photograph hugged a corner. A tall lamp hung over one arm of the couch, and a stack of yellow-paged novels slowly crept upwards to meet it. 

“You’re tidy,” Raylan observed, stepping further into the main crux of house. 

Tim closed the refrigerator door--a sickly off-off-white color that truly worked to age the house--and leaned against it, watching Raylan take the place in. “It ain’t hard to clean up around three pieces of furniture.”

A few cautious steps took him out of the kitchen and into the living space where Raylan looked down and found the only spark of color since the grass on the lawn: a cherry red rug touched with black embellishments. It boasted a vibrant, geometric design, and didn’t look like anything you’d find in Kentucky. 

“Souvenir?” 

“Ten bucks,” Tim said, not boastfully, but curbed, like he’d known it was a steal and he was the thief.

Raylan moved back to get a better look at how large the rug was, only to catch sight of a hideous creature resting on the far right corner, dozing. 

“Jesus,” Raylan laughed, stepping closer. “Tim, that’s the ugliest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.” 

The cat raised his head as though he answered to that exact pronouncement. He stood and stretched, and Raylan marvelled at how grotesque it truly was. Skinny arms and legs held up a pot-belly. Bits of its skull were visible and along his gut, patches of bare fur showcased the sickly tone of his skin. It gave a yawn and bared a snaggle tooth. 

“He’s old,” Tim said in the cat’s defense. “Tell me we ain’t all gonna look like that one day.”

He stooped to pet the thing and was generous with his contact. Raylan thought the creature could only manage to stand by virtue of Tim’s big hands propping him up.

“You don’t need to argue your case,” Raylan teased, his hands raised and open in mock surrender. “Love don’t make sense sometimes.”

The cat started to purr loudly. Tim’s expression seemed to pinch and roll, as though he was trying his damndest to avoid smiling. 

Raylan poked around the heavy, floor-length curtains covering the entire length of the far wall and found they hid a sliding glass door leading to the deck he’d seen from the front. It was a simple thing: space enough for a tiny table and two patio chairs. From outside, Raylan noted that Tim’s neighbors had similar set-ups on their landings. Besides the minimal seating, Tim kept a too-big flowerpot that housed a tiny cactus and--to Raylan’s surprise--a weathered box of cigarettes and a plastic lighter. 

“You smoke?” Raylan asked, closing the door.

Tim kept his attention on the cat. “It’s just something cool that I do.” 

By the opening to the deck, Tim had situated a bookshelf. It was a simple structure, although the way Tim had heaped on paperbacks and dvds made it the only untidy thing in the place.  
Raylan chose a book at random and found it to be one of the Young Adult, Fantasy-type rags Tim always had on hand in his car. 

“You _buy_ these?” Raylan grinned, thumbing through the text. Tim moved slow and plucked the book out of Raylan’s hands, not overtly bothered by the comment. 

“If you check ‘em out at the library, you get put on some kinda list.” 

“Scholastic?” Raylan nodded knowingly. 

Tim regarded Raylan was a _particularly_ flat look. “Lemme show you to the room where they’ll find your body,” he said, gesturing loosely to the closed door opposite his room. 

The extra bedroom featured two windows, a partial view of the deck, and was completely bare. Raylan stepped inside while Tim hung back in the doorway.

“I’ll clean up, of course,” Tim deadpanned.

“Don’t strain yourself.” 

Raylan moved lightly around the room, marveling at the space. “Jesus, Tim, did you take the big room?” Even the closet was huge, and although the clothes racks were positioned awkwardly low to the ground, it would be an easy fix. Furthermore, Raylan knew the space would easily store the few things he hoped to salvage of Frances’ and Helen’s out of Arlo’s place. Raylan turned to face Tim, who had quietly entered the room, but nonetheless kept his distance. “This is a nice place. How’d you luck into it?”

Tim shrugged against the doorframe. He knew he did not have the luxury of not answering, but it wasn’t a fun story to tell. “This was actually my buddy’s place,” Tim said. “I was stayin’ on his couch ‘cause he had a wife and his two little girls shared this room. But uh, he blew his brains out and Carrie took the girls and moved to Wisconsin. I took over the lease so they wouldn’t get hit with a cancellation fee.” Because it seemed like a _fun fact,_ he added: “Landlord knocked a couple hundred off, ‘cause it made the news.” 

A slow frown came to weigh on Raylan’s features. “He did that in--here--?”

“Oh, no,” Tim assured, waving a hand. “My room. S’why I chose it. I feel closer to him that way.”

Raylan’s face cracked into a grin. “You motherfucker,” he said, figuring Tim’s story for a lie.

Tim gave a lopsided smile. “Heh.” 

They waded out of the room, although Raylan’s gaze floated back as he stared, studied, and considered things. When he next turned around, he was met with Tim’s back. The younger Marshal had again stooped to dole out affection to his mangled pet, this time smoothing a flat hand over the creature’s belly as it stretched on its side.

“I can’t lie to you, Tim. You’d be doin’ me a favor.” 

Again, Tim found it difficult to trade in his attentions. Raylan gave a passing thought to if this was how it would always be: him, taking to the back of Tim’s head while the man lavished over a slab of still-warm roadkill. Tim craned his neck and managed, “Is this the warning you give so that when it blows up in my face later, you’re not culpable for damages?”

“That’s the one,” Raylan smirked. “You got any rules you think might turn me off this place? Make an effort or regret it later.”

Tim stood and gave it some serious consideration. “No girls,” he said.

He had a winner.

Raylan’s big, friendly laugh quickly waned into something with uneven edges, something uncertain. “Wait. Really?”

Tim was slow to respond; he enjoyed the way Raylan looked when someone told him _no._ It was like agony, and then and there Tim decided he didn’t tell Raylan _no_ nearly enough. “Not until I get my sock drawer outfitted with locks.”

“I won’t be dating that kind of girl, anymore,” Raylan said, not quite able to argue the point, but giving it his more assured dismissal.

“You _only_ date that kind of girl,” Tim countered, folding his arms across his chest. He gave Raylan a sharp, knowing look. “You wanna play dumb and pretend we both don’t know what Winona made off with outta evidence?”

Raylan tasted a challenge, but fought back the impulse to meet it. Tim did this; he followed up on Raylan’s misdeeds and kept the information to himself. Undoing Winona’s streak of kleptomania, disappearing Gary, pulling extra jobs as a bouncer and a bounty hunter--Tim was easily able to clue himself in on the particulars, although the journey seemed to end there. 

So Raylan favored Tim with another piece of the story: “We put it all back.”

Tim made a face like he smelled something awful. _“Why?”_

“Any actual rules?” Raylan asked, sighing.

“Do I really need to make a list? Lock up when you leave. Don’t set anything on fire. And fair’s fair, you get one shot at running over Tom Hanks.” Tim had half turned away--seemingly for the _third time_ meaning to present Raylan with most of his back and none of his attention--until he slowly swiveled on his heel again. “Actually--one rule. You annoy the _shit_ outta me at work. Don’t do that here.”

Raylan smirked at that, figuring it was Tim’s way of warding off his seemingly constant barrage of requests for favors. Raylan had been of the mind to slow down on his off-duty duties, anyway. He had Winona and the baby to think about, now. And without Arlo, Harlan was a little further behind him. 

With a nod and his hands posed for surrender, Raylan acquiesced to Tim’s single rule. 

“I will do my level best,” he promised. 

Tim gave a perfunctory nod in return, then ventured awkwardly to his unnecessary selling points--he’d heard them all before, too, so whether or not Raylan was already sold, Tim decided to have his say.

“Uh, neighborhood’s nice. There’s a grocery store down the road, a few bars and restaurants a little further. You saw the dog park. Liquor store past the park, so, you know, that’s a fun way to spend an evening.” 

“Drinking and wandering through a mess of trees and dog shit?”

“Comin’ in from Harlan, it’ll make you feel right at home.” Tim finished his beer and wandered into his kitchen. “Recycling bin is here,” he lifted a blue basket out from under the sink. Empty glass bottles rolled and clanked against one another. “When it’s filled to the top you gotta take it out so all the neighbors can see what a ravenous drunk you are. Coffee shop two blocks over ain’t bad. Gym next to it is nice. Clean. Membership cards don’t have a photo ID. You can borrow mine.”

Raylan chewed on a smile threatening to spread across his face. “Maybe my social graces are skewed, but that sounds like a mighty warm welcome, Deputy.”

Tim regarded his co-worker with a flat look. “I’d be saving money, too. Room’s yours if you want it.” 

“I really didn’t think it’d be this easy,” Raylan said, honestly surprised by his good fortune. 

“Despite your storied failures, I don’t peg you for a difficult guy to live with.”

“Thanks?”

“We just won’t fuck,” Tim said with a thoughtful nod. “That’s where things seem to go astray, for you.”

“That’s very observant,” Raylan said with a hard eye over Tim, who looked pretty pleased with himself. “Thanks, Tim. I’ll make a note of that.”

“Just on a Post-It,” Tim advised, waving an errant hand. 

“Daily alarm on my phone,” Raylan said, joining in on the joke. “Don’t fuck Tim.”

“Don’t you do it.” 

"Since we’re on the subject, what about," Raylan hedged a moment before settling, "Guests, to be polite about it." 

"Uh-huh," Tim grinned, clearly enjoying Raylan's discomfort. “Guests,” he punctuated. “I’ve got mine, you’ll have yours, and we’ll try not to mix them up in hilarious hijinx.” 

"Huh.” Again, Raylan sounded pleasantly surprised. "Didn't figure you for guest _s_. I thought you'd have something regular. You're a regular guy."

"Mom always said I was special."

“Well, good,” Raylan said. “If you’re sure.”

Tim grimaced and inclined his head, appearing as though he intended to see over the hidden meaning in Raylan’s airy tone. “What.”

“I don’t know, man. When I was your age--”

“You should really stop right there.”

“--I had a wife. We’d... we were trying to make a life together.”

“This is pretty embarrassing.”

Quickly tiring of Tim’s undercutting tone, Raylan laid his stance bare: “If that’s something you’re looking to do, I don’t want to be the creepy guy in the next room.”

Smiling blandly as though he hadn’t committed a word of Raylan’s to memory, Tim shrugged and said, “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that there’s always a creepy older guy in the next room. Might as well be you.” He raised his near-empty bottle.

“I didn’t say older.” Raylan corrected. “Really, Tim.”

Although ground out and exasperated, the remark was sincere--enough so that Tim only rolled his eyes rather than deliver the biting remark kept ready in his arsenal. He held up one hand, accepting Raylan’s point. 

“That’s not what I’m looking to do,” Tim assured him with the kind of gravity that relieved Raylan (and sure, future decades of his hellspawn) of any fault, should Tim reach Raylan’s age without a few ex-wives and a kid on the way.

Raylan sucked at his teeth. “Smart man.” 

Tim drank to a deal that had basically been made two hours earlier across a spread of tacos and beer, and presided over by the honorable Deputy Brooks. 

But they both figured Rachel was feeling very satisfied somewhere, drinking something of a higher calibre than whatever craft beer was chilled in Tim’s fridge. 

“Well all right,” Raylan said, turning on his heel to take the place in again. 

“$150 a month,” Tim said, observing the same view as Raylan. “That fine by you?”

It was _more_ than fine, but Raylan didn’t let his relief show on his face. “That ain’t half,” he said, doubling his shock with accusation. 

“It’s close,” Tim lied. Somehow--and Tim figured he was going soft in the head, allowing it--Rachel’s voice and what was essentially _her offer_ of Tim’s place echoed in his mind. Raylan was trying to put some long-term plans into action. He was thinking ahead and it was no small feat. Tim might have wagered that kind of thinking deserved at least a nine month head start, but maybe there was an art to the concept that escaped him. And although he didn’t really know Winona (except that she once spotted him at a bar and made away with Raylan in a mad dash for the door--rude), Tim figured any woman who had stuck around Raylan for more than a night deserved a little something back. 

There was the kid, too. 

Tim supposed at least Raylan was aware of what a shitty father he’d had, and would endeavor to be a kind, supportive fixture in the kid’s life--the likes of which Raylan himself had never known. But Tim also believed things had a way of cycling back, of the tree poisoning the fruit. 

_That’s not what I’m looking to do._

It wasn’t a lie. 

“Yeah, well,” Raylan said, shaking his head out of the fog that seemed to have settled there. He was stood in the living room, only a few feet away from the bedroom he intended to rent, but for a price so low he might as well have taken a shit on the windowsill and claimed squatter’s rights. Tim being so cavalier about it made Raylan feel particularly on edge. “Thanks, Tim.”

“Yep,” Tim evaded, then turned to his fridge and brandished two more beers. “Seal the deal?” 

This time, Raylan accepted the offer. After Tim’s tour, he felt like he needed it. “It’s a decent thing you’re doing,” he tried again.

Tim shrugged.

“Rules like a convent,” Raylan changed tactics and attempted to throw off some of the awkwardness with a wry smile and a bit of self-deprecating charm (not his usual, but it took to it well). “But beggars can’t be choosers.”

Finally, Tim sucked in a breath and put Raylan out of his misery. “You’re welcome, I’m a saint, I get it. Really, though. With guests--no comment. That goes both ways.”

Raylan smiled at that, sensing immediately that despite his best efforts not to appear so, Tim was feeling uneasy about the set-up, too. “Well, Tim, if she’s an octogenarian, I’m going to have some questions.”

Tim quirked his eyebrows and met Raylan’s amused stare. “Yeah, me too.” 

For a brief moment, Tim pitted his stare to the floor, like he had something to say he’d really rather not. 

After another swig of his second beer, Tim finally ground out the words: “I ain’t on call tomorrow. You got shit you gotta move outta Harlan, I can lend a hand.” 

Raylan sat his beer definitively on the counter. Its sharp clatter seemed to echo Raylan’s continued bafflement over what--by all accounts--appeared to be Tim's honest and easy generosity. “You’re a lot more agreeable here than at the office. Can’t be the cheery decor...”

“So that’s a no, then?”

Raylan shrugged, thinking over Tim’s offer. “I could use some of that muscle and youthful exuberance of yours.”

“Gonna have to wait on the exuberance,” Tim drawled. “I jerk off a lot.”

“Running low?”

Tim grinned. “Yeah.” 

Raylan shook his head. He hated to think that a man so immature in his humor and remedial in his tastes had solved the living situation Raylan had been truly struggling with for the better part of a year. 

What did that say about him?

“You do realize that I am a grown man with a child on the way,” Raylan stressed, observing Tim with a skeptical eye. “There’s only so much juvenile shit I can take.”

“Uh-huh,” Tim dismissed. “You lemme know when I’m getting close.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leaving one home for another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, friends! Hope you enjoy this latest bit.

It was 9am in Harlan County, Kentucky, and already the air was warm and wet--humid, like Kentucky got sometimes. The hills visible from Raylan’s winding front porch had looked cool and blue some three hours ago when Tim was just leaving Lexington, but now they were bright and lit with gaping wildflowers and ample sunshine. 

Tim arrived looking a little more the part of an ex-Army Ranger than was usually afforded to him in his day-job. He stepped out of his SUV in dark jeans and a t-shirt, a cap pulled on backwards and a styrofoam gas station-brand coffee cup in hand. With enough sunshine, the barest shadow of Tim’s dark chest tattoo was visible through his white t-shirt.

In the short march from his SUV to Raylan’s front door, Tim’s regulation boots crushed every blade of grass they met. 

Tim pounded on Raylan’s door, then leaned against the porch railing to wait. He pushed off it, briefly, to issue another series of knocks when Raylan failed to answer.

Raylan jerked open the door and kicked the screen. Tim worked not to betray his amusement: Raylan had clamoured to the door in still-unzipped jeans, and a t-shirt that had only made its way around Raylan’s neck and left arm. “This is a glimpse into a very dark future,” Raylan said, squinting tiredly at Tim. He blinked a few times more and shifted his glare to his watch. “Jesus, what time is it?”

“Nine,” Tim supplied promptly. He took another sip of his bitter coffee, then folded his arms across his chest. 

“Yes, thank you,” Raylan scrubbed a hand over his face and into his hair. “Couldn’t sleep last night. Too hot.” Raylan gave a wet-sounding yawn and chewed on it. “Power’s been out since Arlo fucked off to prison.” 

“Yeah okay,” Tim said dismissively. “I didn’t ask.” 

“You surely did not,” Raylan turned away his head to yawn again before stepping out on the porch to join Tim, resigned to the fact that he wouldn’t get just a few more minutes of sleep. 

Tim stepped aside, allowing Raylan passage. He watched as Raylan wriggled completely into his shirt, then zipped and buttoned his fly.

“What have you been doing for three weeks?” Tim asked, trying to figure Raylan’s life without scores of women, among whom he hoped a place with working electricity was a requirement among their suitors. 

“Seeing to things,” Raylan answered, eyeing his watch again.

“Things,” Tim echoed, unfolding his arms. 

“Things, _comma,_ and shit.”

“You don’t need a comma.” 

“I don’t need a grammar lesson, neither.”

Tim accepted that and continued after Raylan, who was trudging over to his car for a mass of flat moving boxes. 

Raylan had his doubts about Rachel's concerns for Tim. He seemed well enough--no different from his usual self, at the very least. A little too quiet, mostly. A little too harsh when he wasn't. And drinking a little too much at a work function was no grave crime.

But the guy--for as much as Raylan wanted to be kind in his judgment, considering the favor Tim was doing for him--was relentless in his… being? Raylan would have called it humor, except Tim wasn’t trying to be funny. If he took the pains to speak, he always seemed frightenly genuine despite the nonsense he spouted. 

Raylan watched him deposit the boxes by the house, then stalk around the side, curious. Raylan followed.

“The house that cocaine built,” Tim said, grinning as he started to circle the place, only to stop before the gravestones of Frances, Helen, and Arlo Givens. Tim nodded toward the stone bearing Raylan’s name. “You want I should pack that up?”

“Leave it,” Raylan said. “It’s a matching set. Ups the value of the house.” 

Tim kept staring, saying, “That’s weird, man.” While thinking bemusedly, _I don’t even know where my parents are buried. If they were._ He imagined them outside his home, maybe filling the empty dirt patches on either side of his front door.

Tim noticed the ground had been turned over recently--under Arlo’s name, and he didn’t have to ask. 

He eyed the ground sitting under the shadow of Raylan’s preemptive gravestone. “You gonna fill that spot, one day?”

“No day soon,” Raylan answered by avoiding answering. “You gonna have one of them military plots up somewhere nice? D.C., with a view?”

If Tim seemed as though he didn’t want to say, he quickly adopted a wry grin and admitted, “Yeah. If there’s room.” He took a few steps back into the tall grass and weeds around the house and had himself a better view of the gravestones. “Or, I wanna be shot into space, _Wrath of Khan_ -style.”

Tim took a few steps forward and accidently left a print in the soil of Arlo’s grave. A nice, neat, solid indentation of his boot. “Whoops,” he said, then added in his most put-upon, endearingly hick tone, "Raylan, I done stepped on your pa."

“Hey,” Raylan said in a warning tone. “Let’s talk about your daddy, huh?”

Tim quirked a half-smile, unfazed by Raylan’s angry turn. “Like I said, died before I got back from Basic with skills and a loaded weapon.”

Raylan’s first instinct was to shame Tim, to make him feel presumptuous in expecting Raylan to remember one thing he’d said so long ago. But Raylan had to admit, if the first and only words a co-worker shares about his father detail a desire to kill him… that’s not something you forget. He went on the offensive anyway, drawing a distinction between himself and Tim. “So you’d shoot to kill, huh.”

Tim’s half-smile turned whole. “Always.” 

_Now,_ Raylan could maybe see where Rachel was coming from. 

Tim ventured inside the house to see what he’d be dealing with; three weeks of Raylan accomplish “things” didn’t inspire greatness. Moments after Tim disappeared into the house, he stalked right back out. He stood on the porch for a second, dumbfounded. 

“Shit, Raylan, you haven’t packed a goddamn thing.”

“What, in the house?”

“No, your snail collection. Shit’s all askew. Yes, the goddamn house.”

Raylan started up the porch steps with a handful of boxes, but stopped, unable to pass Tim. The younger Marshal’s stance seemed to physically demand an explanation. “I ain’t packing but a few things--no furniture. I’m giving Constable Bob Sweeney free reign. Anything he wants, thinks he can sell--is his. Month from now, I’ma throw out what’s left.” 

“Oh.” Tim’s posture slackened. “So…”

“Thing is, you’ve met Bob.” 

Tim nodded. “How’s he healin’ up?”

“Slowly but surely.”

Tim wet his lips. His temper fizzled. “I’ll start bringing down shit from upstairs.”

“Thank you,” Raylan said dryly, and passed.

\- 

Tim delved into his assignment; he emptied out closets, dressers, and desks and packaged their contents in boxes, sandwiched between blankets, so that he could carry down the furniture. He finished one room and started on another--the master bedroom. Tim didn’t spare a thought as to whether or not Raylan would want him digging through his parents’ things. Raylan had had three weeks to decide that. 

It was nearly three hours of inhaling dust and working up a sweat before Tim glanced out one of the upstairs windows and spied Raylan conversing with Boyd Crowder on the front lawn. He couldn’t help but stare; the pair looked like opponents in a particularly rudimentary video game Tim played as a kid featuring a tall, light hero--and a small, dark villain. If either party was to throw a few punches or land a roundhouse kick, Tim knew he didn’t want to miss them. He decided it was time for a break.

He snagged a beer from the ice chest Raylan kept stocked in the middle of his kitchen, took two steps, then retreated--bringing one for Raylan, too. 

Considering neither Raylan nor Tim were armed, he liked the idea of having something on hand, friendly visit or no.

Boyd was issuing threats about Ava; Raylan was taking them in stride. From the tight turn to his mouth, Tim could tell he wasn’t too pleased to learn of her current circumstances, but was trying hard to wash his hands of Harlan County. Considering the way Boyd always seemed particularly skilled at wrangling the cowboy’s attention, however, Tim figured Ava wasn’t going to be the hardest habit to quit. 

Tim strolled up to their meeting place, although he took care not to enter the space in which Raylan and Boyd seemed to be practically circling one another. Tim extended his arm fully, and Raylan had to do the same to reach the offer of a beer. He did, thankful for something to turn his focus away from Boyd, if only for a moment.

Boyd was red-faced. Whatever lengthy diatribe he’d laid on Raylan was finished now. “I lost my woman, and my friend.” His beetle-black eyes rested on Tim. “I see you still got yours.”

“Friend,” Tim clarified needlessly, raising his beer. He added in a low drawl, “‘Til I fuck up one too many times and decide to end it.” He quirked a smile and spoke to the particulars of a truth that, in fact, had taken many beers to get just right. “Colt committed suicide. And you drove him to it.” 

Tim took a celebratory swig, strangely glad to have said out loud what had been plaguing his conscience. 

Boyd, on the other hand, misread Tim’s apparent cheer. 

“Colt was my friend. My _brother._ ” There was a slick, loopy sort of curl to each word. The way Boyd said it--like he was dropping code for Tim to read--made Tim taste a bitterness coat his tongue. Like he’d swallowed an oil slick instead of a micro brew.

“You got a lot of reverence for that kind of thing, huh?” Tim returned, sounding accusatory. “Brothers in arms? Colt didn’t.” 

In a low, dangerous snarl, Boyd countered: “I let him put a pistol to my head.”

“Could have done us all a favor,” Tim returned, though his tone was deceivingly cool for the point he was making. “Like I said: fuck up.”

Suddenly, the dynamics changed and Boyd had a look on him that had Raylan wondering if he ought to stand between the two. But Boyd was as smart a fighter as he was dirty; here, his battle wasn’t with Tim. Even Raylan was some rings out from Boyd’s innermost conflict: Detroit.

Boyd spared a few ominous words for Raylan, then took his leave. 

Tim turned and started in the opposite direction--back towards the house--but he didn’t get far, as Raylan soon had a hand on his shoulder and was pulling him to a stop. Raylan half-shoved Tim around to face him and Tim--to his credit--did not fight back. “I wasn’t gonna interrupt your stride back there, but what the fuck?” 

“It’s true,” Tim answered curtly. Raylan removed his hand and then they were walking again, slowly but in tandem. Two pairs of boots--cowboy and military--wreaked further havoc on the Givens’ lawn. 

Raylan studied Tim a moment. “I guess you really get to know a fella when he tries to blow you up.” 

Tim held his tongue. Running into Colt at the VA with Mark-- _Mark_ , and all that entailed--wasn’t something Raylan was privy to, and nor should he be, in Tim’s estimation. It wouldn’t serve any greater good but to clue Raylan into some warped misdeed of Tim’s. 

But Tim took great joy in exploiting Raylan’s ignorance, so he pointed out the obvious: “You remember that time you were molested by mountain hillbillies?”

“I try not to think about it, strangely enough.”

“It was for a good four hours,” Tim reminded him. “Colt pulled in around hour two.” Tim wet his lips and added haughtily, “I’ve been told I’m very easy to talk to.”

But Raylan wasn’t listening; they’d reached the porch and he was busy watching Boyd drive off. Whereas Raylan would have liked to see him slowly, but surely disappear, Tim thought lingering was counterintuitive. He wanted to snap Raylan’s attention away, to log the threat as neutralized or, at least, as past the mailbox. No-man’s land. 

Stepping into the house and then, the living room, Tim noticed the wall Raylan had patched up. He moved to inspect it while Raylan took his time to join him. 

“Good luck selling this place,” Tim drawled. Raylan picked up on a hint of amusement and lobbed a look Tim’s way, complete with an arched brow and narrowed eyes. 

Tim explained, “You stomp around here like you mean to grind dog shit into the carpet.” 

Raylan thought about saying he’d hire a realtor to properly whore the place out and that he’d have no part in it--but he guessed Tim wasn’t really interested either way. 

“Why, did you see a pile I missed?”

“Just sayin’.” Tim kept his eyes fixated on the smooth wall. “It’s big.” 

Tim could have meant anything by it--the fact that a big house in a poverty-stricken part of Kentucky wouldn’t sell for what Raylan wanted, for one. But Raylan knew better. It didn’t quite surprise him that Tim spoke in a subdued language he understood--that of the abused child--and what Tim had meant was plain, if a touche judgmental: _it couldn’t have been as bad as you make it out to be, having lived here. It’s huge. You could hide._

Choosing instead to ignore Tim’s meaning, Raylan rolled his eyes and said tauntingly, “Yes, Tim, in Harlan County I was a regular Tom Buchanan.” 

“So do your hulking out on the lawn,” Tim droned without a hesitating a second. “Because there _is_ dog shit on your shoe.”

“Aw, fuck--” Raylan saw the mess curled around the side of his boot, and lifted it quickly. He snatched a rag from a nearby countertop and scraped at it. “There ain’t even any dogs around here…” For as much as Raylan hated his childhood home--because of what had gone on there, and what didn’t--he couldn’t help the ways in which the tall walls, tight hallways, and full bookshelves took him back. He smirked at Tim, a rag still pressed to the wet bottom of his boot, and said, “Hey. I don’t like that word.”

“ _Hulking._ ” Tim insisted, smirking right back. (1) Tim left the dining room and Raylan’s patched wall, his sights set on a roll of paper towels in the kitchen.

“Hey,” Tim said, venturing off course and slowly stalking towards the spread of windows open in the living room. He pulled back the dust-colored curtains. “I ain’t even beat on you yet, and you called the cops?”

Raylan was batting at the bottom of his shoe as he spoke exasperatedly: “I’m gonna tell you this right now, Tim. I don’t have a clue of what the fuck you’re on about, half the time.”

Tim pointed to the car driving erratically up the road. It was flashing red and blue lights. Speaking simply, Tim asked, “You got any other friends in town?”

Raylan frowned and squinted at the sight. “No, we about killed them all.”

Realization struck Raylan with a simple _“Oh, hell.”_ He stepped out of his house to see Bob roll up in his refurbished Gremlin. He climbed out sporting a bloody nose and looking dazed. 

“Bob,” Raylan waved from the porch, “You all right there?”

“Huh?” Bob spun around and tried to focus on Raylan, although he seemed to be settled a few inches off target. “Oh, yeah.” 

“You’re flashing your lights,” Raylan pointed out. “And bleeding.”

Bob keeled over some and took in a few wheezing breaths before standing straight again and hooking a confident thumb over his shoulder. “Flying tackled an intruder at the Olson place,” he said. “He got me good with a lead pipe, but I wrangled him in.” 

“And you came here to… tell me about it?”

“Well yeah,” Bob insisted. “I _flying tackled a dude._ ”

On top of appearing mighty dazed, Bob looked right proud of himself. Raylan had met with him often over his three week suspension--generally unplanned, as Bob would just _happen_ to stop by with a cooler full of beer and four different kinds of Doritos. Still, Raylan didn’t mind it so much. It was nice for once not to expect a visitor, but find good company nonetheless. Most people coming ‘round Raylan’s place in the past few decades had plans to kill him, it seemed. Bob just wanted a drinking buddy.

Raylan was getting the notion, too, that Bob wanted to try his hand being Sheriff. If nothing else, Raylan used his visits to reason against such a leap. Bob was a tough son of a bitch, but that was a short-held position for any man. 

So there was Constable Bob Sweeney, slow-moving and headachey--and yet every inch the hero he had designs to be, so long as Raylan Givens thought so. 

“That’s something, Bob. You ought to have a seat, though. You’re looking about as white as a ghost.”

Raylan helped guide Bob into a lawn chair situated between the Givens’ household and Arlo’s RV. Tim emerged from the house, his jeans streaked with dust and shirt damp with sweat. 

“Who’s that?”

“That’s my partner.” 

Bob nodded slowly, taking Tim in. After a time he again pointed at the younger Marshal. “And him?”

“Co-worker,” Raylan said, frowning. He stood, meaning to fetch Bob a glass of water and an ice pack. 

“I ain’t your partner no more?” Tim bemoaned while sporting a bemused smile. 

“Don’t go confusing him,” Raylan warned, leaving the two. 

“How you doing, Constable?” Tim asked, thinking to himself that the stout man didn’t look so great. In just sitting down, he’d developed a flop sweat. Tim inched closer.

“I… am… outstanding.” 

“Oh no, I caught that right off the bat.” Tim smoothed out the paper towels he’d grabbed for the shit on Raylan’s shoe and offered them to Bob. “Here. For your outstandingly bloody nose.” 

Bob took to twisting the ends up the towel, and stuffing them up his nose. “Thankth,” was his congested reply.

“Yep,” Tim returned, and waited along with Bob for Raylan. 

A breeze had swept through Harlan, and at last found Raylan’s property. It was almost comfortable or even--pleasant. Tim leaned against Arlo’s abandoned RV but kept his focus on Bob, who looked as though he might take a tumble out of the lawn chair as surely as he might a moving car. 

“Thank Christ we have a doctor present,” Tim announced, noticing Raylan’s return and eyeing the man’s haul: a bottle of water, a gel ice pack, and a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

“Just let me work,” Raylan snarked back, brandishing the items in forked hands like a mad scientist. Tim very nearly smiled at that. Instead, he swept an arm back and allowed Raylan access to the patient. 

With some sips of water and the ice pack pressed to the goose egg on the back of his head, Bob perked up quickly. Soon, he was happily chattering away with Raylan and Tim, who’d resolved to take a break, share the bag of chips, and keep Bob company. 

“It’s been great having you around, Raylan. You know, another officer of the law to talk shop with. We’re a special breed, am I right?”

“Yeah Bob,” Raylan encouraged, ignoring Tim’s delirious grin at _special breed._ “Real special.”

It was abundantly clear that Constable Bob had a great, enduring love for Raylan. To Tim, it was interesting to see that love displayed in big doe-like (or concussion-inspired?) eyes rather than Art’s usual string of verbal abuse coupled with a lenient hand. Better yet, Tim liked seeing that Raylan couldn’t handle that kind of positive attention; he grew short with Bob and stuffed his face with potato chips to keep from talking.

“I’m actually staying at Tim’s place in Lexington,” Raylan answered curtly after Bob had carried on for a time about how he was going to miss Raylan down in Harlan, but he had a cousin with a place in Lexington, and maybe they could get together sometime and play poker? Or anything really. But poker especially.

Bob frowned. “Things not work out with Sandy?”

“Who?”

“Sandy,” Bob insisted. “Your girlfriend. Remember, you showed me that,” Bob dropped his voice to a whisper, despite Tim being sat right next to him, “ _that_ picture on your phone--?”

Raylan closed his eyes in frustration. “Bob, that was Lindsey. I don’t know a Sandy.”

“Sandy Olsson,” Tim supplied, grinning. Bob’s head snapped up, attentive.

“You do know her!”

“You are unwell, Bob,” Raylan sighed.

Tim dismissed Raylan’s concern, and goaded Bob on. “No, I see it. Bangs and the ponytail.”

“But you didn’t see the picture,” Bob said, as if Tim couldn’t--in good conscience--offer his supportive assessment without visual proof. 

Tim agreed. He looked to Raylan and put on an innocent face. “Can I see the picture?”

There was some argument to be made--something about respecting things shared in intimate moments among consenting partners, but under the hot sun in Harlan county, just outside his dead daddy’s house where he’d been staying because he couldn’t afford a place of his own, Raylan was a touch too mad to conjure it up. 

“Fuckin’ fine,” Raylan said, digging into his jeans pocket for his phone. He scrolled past a few things--Winona’s swollen belly, Josiah Cairn’s severed foot--and produced a sexy picture Lindsey had taken of herself with Raylan’s phone. He passed it to Tim without himself getting a good look at it. “She did rob me and sell me chickens.”

“Bad Sandy.” Bob self-corrected. Tim chuckled but Raylan was not amused. He snapped back his phone.

“You shouldn’t be driving, Bob.” Raylan gave Tim a sidelong glance, seeking confirmation. “We’ll finish up here and see you home, all right?”

Bob waved them away and readjusted his ice pack.

Tim caught up with Raylan’s long-legged stride back to his house. “How is it you know Constable Sweeney well enough to show him a dirty picture of your ex?” he asked. 

“Who haven't I shown that picture to?” Raylan joked without a smile. Tim got the feeling he felt poorly about sharing it with Bob in the first place, and again, with Tim. Tim resolved not to bring it up again, already regretting his part in playing up Bob’s concussion and asking to see it. After a time Raylan explained, “We went to school together.”

Tim wet his lips. “Well I guess that’s something. Here I was thinking if I looked through your senior yearbook, it’d just be you, the Crowders, the Bennetts, and any number of fine, upstanding citizens in the local penitentiary.” 

“So what, Bob evens things out?”

“Two against fifty… ain’t bad.” 

“Good guys versus bad guys?”

“Something like that.”

\- 

Raylan drove Bob’s car with the loopy Constable riding shotgun; Tim followed in his SUV, then picked up Raylan for the return leg. 

“He gonna be all right?” Tim asked, eyeing over his shoulder the woman who had staked a claim on Bob’s porch and was angrily following Raylan with a powerful stink-eye.

“His wife is pissed we didn’t take him to the hospital,” Raylan answered while ducking his head. “He’ll be fine.” 

Tim took him at his word, but also because Bob seemed a little scatterbrained even without a blow to the head. For a moment, Tim fiddled with the radio, wanting for a working station despite knowing none would be found. He gave up quickly.

“Explain something to me,” Tim started, glancing sideways at Raylan. “Why, if a fella wants to sell a house, does he clog the entire ground floor with furniture and boxes? Despite knowing he can’t show a house like that.”

“And how does he know that?” Raylan asked dryly, playing along.

Tim lobbed Raylan a tight, unamused smile. “Because before taking to the boonies, this man lived in the lap of luxury, with things like electricity, television, and _House Hunters_. Furthermore, explain to me why a fella looking for a little extra cash--”

“Wait a minute, am I the fella?”

“--Why an asshole looking for a little extra cash,” Tim corrected, “Doesn’t move this stuff to Lexington, and sell it someplace he’d have more buyers?” Tim returned his focus to the road. “Even second hand, you’re making some bank.” 

Raylan stared at Tim a while longer, wondering where the younger man got the gall to critique his decisions, then remembering whose house it was he would be staying at for the foreseeable future, Raylan answered simply, “I don’t want anything of Arlo’s.”

“Speaking from experience, that’s stupid,” Tim said, adding quickly, “And a lie. You patched up the wall, you wanna sell the house.”

“Maybe I’ll just bulldoze it, then,” Raylan returned cheekily, quickly tiring of the conversation.

“To make a point?” Tim said. “Yeah, that’s not textbook crazy at all.” 

Raylan watched the road putter out and turn to bits of gravel, then dirt. His home came into view as Tim rolled over the green of his lawn, almost tauntingly. Raylan found it easy to say nothing to stop him.

“I’ve got no love for this place,” Raylan said, half-wishing Tim had the balls to drive his SUV through the front door (wondering all the while why he hadn’t thought of doing that, himself). “I don’t give a shit what’s under it.”

Tim stopped the car and drummed his long fingers on the wheel. “Your mom?”

“She’d dead,” Raylan answered without missing a beat. He quickly unbuckled his seatbelt and started out the car door. 

Tim leaned over into Raylan’s vacated space and answered in kind, “I’d hope so. Otherwise, what a ridiculous mistake.”

“Tim?” Raylan’s tone took a swift departure from cool and calculated to razor-edge sharp. He stood before the open passenger side door, unamused. “I think we had this conversation once before. Don’t say shit unless you know for sure it helps.”

“I’m here, helping,” Tim goaded, and called out to Raylan even after he’d shut the door in Tim’s face, “Seems to me I’ve bought _stock_ in shit to say!”

Leaning over the hot hood of Tim’s SUV, Raylan splayed out his hands as if making an offer and not a demand. “I’ve got exactly six boxes of random shit and two trash bags of clothes. _Help_ me move them into my car, why don’t you, and we can get out of here.”

Tim was already facing Raylan’s turned back when he asked, “If you don’t have plans to set all Arlo’s shit on fire, you think you can spare a coffee table?” 

“Round one in the den,” Raylan allowed. “It wasn’t Arlo’s.”

Tim stood for a moment, his departure delayed. “Hey, thanks for the offer of help to move it,” he called, just to step on Raylan’s toes.

Raylan turned on his heel, but continued walking to the house, backwards. “Boxes, Tim. We’re on a schedule.”

Tim jogged after him. “Are we? Because I got here at nine!”

\- 

Raylan carried the last little brown box of his belongings in from his car and set it down on the countertop in Tim’s kitchen. Tim had brought in the surprisingly heavy coffee table and situated it nicely between the couch and mounted television. 

“Hey,” Raylan called to Tim, who’d disappeared into his bedroom. Raylan got only spared a peak for his, noting that after Raylan had left the afternoon before, Tim had moved in a bedframe and shiny quilted mattress. 

“What,” Tim answered back. 

“Saw the bed. Thanks. Looks new.”

“It sort of is,” Tim answered, opening the door to his room and partly closing it behind him. 

Raylan eyed him. “Nice outfit.”

“So kind of you to say,” Tim answered in a drawl, bending down to stuff his foot into a dusty white sneaker. He’d kept the same sweaty t-shirt, but traded his jeans for a pair of black running shorts with a small U.S. Army logo on the side. The earbuds for an iPod drooped out of the neck of his shirt.

“But, uh,” Raylan shook his head, trying to get his question right. He failed. “Did a man die in that bed?”

“No,” Tim answered, drawing on his other shoe. “A man was shot in that bed, but he died on the floor.” He pulled a little silver iPod from his pocket that was positively dwarfed in his hands. “Oh, hey,” Tim crossed into the kitchen and opened the awkwardly small freezer on his already small refrigerator, then plucked a crinkled plastic bag. Ice crystals leapt off the bag and onto the floor as Tim lifted it to the counter and deposited it in front of Raylan. “Rachel dropped those off,” he said. “Housewarming present.” 

Raylan twisted open the bag and found a selection of Chaney’s brand ice cream. Raylan plucked a pint from the bag with each hand. “Snowy Mountain Apple Pie?” he exclaimed, pleased. “That shit’s seasonal.” 

Raylan opened a lid and marveled at the mass of ice cream, swirls of cider, and chunks of caramelized apple. The look on his face was near orgasmic. “Where are your spoons?”

“Uhm,” Tim stared at the ceiling, thoughtful. 

“Whatever, I brought my own.” Raylan rummaged through a box on the counter and produced two spoons. He plunged one into the icy, creamy mixture in pint in his hands, and allowed the other to clatter onto the counter.

“Here.” Raylan tossed Tim a carton of his own. “Bourbon Crunch.” 

“Maybe later,” Tim said, tossing it back. “I’m not exactly dressed for the occasion.” Then, he gestured loosely at the spread of boxes in his kitchen and living room. Somehow, none had quite made their way into Raylan’s bedroom. “Think you can handle this from here?”

Speaking around a spoon half-lodged into his mouth, Raylan answered, “I can manage.”

Tim didn’t respond; he stuffed the earbuds into place, gave the cat a pat on its head in passing, and disappeared out the front door. Raylan watched him jog down the driveway, then down the street. 

Stood in another man’s living room and eating his ice cream, Raylan never felt so far from Harlan County.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Quoting from The Great Gatsby like a couple of middle school _nerds._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raylan doesn't find much snooping through Tim's things, but bookshelves aren't where Tim stores his alcoholism, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I STILL HAVE NO IDEA WHERE THIS IS GOING. SEND HELP.

Reasoning Tim's run afforded him upwards of half an hour, at least, Raylan figured he’d use his time to further poke around Tim’s place. He’d planned to do it anyway, with or without Tim’s constant eye on him. This way somehow seemed more polite, he supposed. 

Raylan started with the living room. 

The bookshelf caught his eye; items on the lower shelves were old and aligned neatly, as if untouched since the day Tim took over the lease. Raylan had to stoop to see the piles of well-worn military handbooks, as well as Pashto phrase books and language guides. From one of those, Raylan plucked a plain little notebook and found himself marveling at the fact that Tim’s scribbles in a different language were somehow more legible than his phonetic translations in English. The further up the shelves, the newer and more juvenille the items. Raylan couldn’t say he knew many people with a dog-eared copies of _On Killing_ and the U.S. Army-issued _Small Wars Manual_ , as well as the complete _Harry Potter_ series--in hardcover. 

Although his DVD collection was scattered amongst his books, nothing stood out except for every _Batman_ film ever made, and several seasons of _The X-Files_ \--save for the ninth, however, which Raylan couldn’t fault him for. Piled on top of those DVDs were guidebooks for traveling in Alaska, Amsterdam, and Brazil, respectively. Raylan was of a mind to ask about the latter, his brain echoing back some months ago when Tim cashed in his sick days and took an impromptu week-long vacation. He returned with a tan and a broken nose, which said about as much of Brazil as Raylan understood it. 

Awkwardly stacked among the thicker tomes was a collection of comic books. Raylan thumbed through some of the titles and found an assortment of tastes--classic _X-Men_ in strikingly poor condition, various Alan Moore titles, water damaged _Spiderman_ , _Hawkeye_ , and something that looked a bit like beginners porn called _Sex Criminals_. 

Amidst all the novels and paperback fantasy trash lining the higher shelves, Raylan found a large book of war photography--specifically, of one Ranger unit in Afghanistan. With the given inscription scribbled in front-- _Thanks for having my back, suckdicks_ \--Raylan realized it was one of Tim's deployments, and that Tim was in the some of the pictures. 

Raylan sat on the arm of the couch and took his time pacing through the book. Winona had an eye for photography--or maybe just coffee table books, but Raylan didn’t see much of a difference, there. He could only appreciate so many mountain ranges erupting out of a haze of fog and crystalline lakes. 

From the first page, Raylan supposed there was no greater departure from the neatly stacked books in the living room Winona had put together than what Tim had buried under comic books and one-off sci-fi rags.

It was an image of an injured man having his forearm stitched up, but whose worries didn’t end there. In addition to the neat fillet of flesh hanging slick and slack from his arm, he’d somehow lost the index and middle fingers on his right hand--each at the middle knuckle. Almost neat-like. He was attempting to flip the photographer the bird, with bloody results. 

Next to the awful stump, Raylan noticed, there was a heavy wedding band on the-- _intact_ \--ring finger. 

In the subsequent glossy pages Raylan began to see the odd shot of Tim, or his presence among the men in his unit. 

He was the youngest, the smallest. In some, he was downright the meanest. 

In one of the pictures, he was grinning--big and stupid--at the antics of two other soldiers, wrestling in a ditch. His enormous rifle stood at nearly his height, it seemed, draped as it was with a strap over one shoulder. In another picture, he was sleeping soundly on the ground, his head thrown back at an uncomfortable-looking angle to pillow on his heavy pack. In a portrait piece, Tim gave the photojournalist the driest, flattest stare--like a DMV had been dropped into the middle of a war zone, and Tim was getting his license renewed. It was the exact face, too, that Raylan often saw out of the corner of his eye in the office, when Tim was pissed at him for one thing or another. 

_Keep this up,_ Raylan mused to himself, figuring he’d be seeing that look a great deal more.

Raylan continued through the book until stopping at a particularly striking, glossy image.

A sizeable third of the picture was taken up by a meaty, muscled shoulder and the crown of a ducked head. The camera was a touch too close, and the fleshed looked soft when really, it was only blurred. Just beyond the crouched form was Tim, shirtless and tired-eyed, smiling crookedly while the man pressed a tattooing needle against his skin and inked a heavy design. Tim had his arms folded behind his head and if it wasn’t for the sliver of background in the shot showcasing a phenomenal range of mountains and valleys sweeping off into the horizon, Raylan might have placed the image as _Spring Break, circa 2005._

Subsequently, there were a few pages of action shots--the first and only firefight the photographer had ever been caught in, Raylan guessed, considering not a photo was spared and it came at the end of the book. He couldn’t tell Tim’s back from any other soldiers’, so his attention began to wane. Still, Raylan would have liked to know the story, there--if the photographer had hailed a Blackhawk helicopter that very night and set off for American shores.

He could imagine starting that conversation with Tim, though, and thought better of it.

_So I was digging through your things…_

To at least _attempt_ to satiate his curiosity, Raylan flipped to the start of the book, his eyes skimming the first couple of pages for the year the photos were taken. He found the year, did the math and--

Three years ago.

It didn’t seem feasible. Miracle of human ingenuity or not, Raylan could not believe that a series of connecting flights could get Tim out of Afghanistan and into the suburbs of Kentucky in three years time. Raylan tried to imagine the displacement, the way time zones and weather systems and language patterns must savage the body when they’re left--going both ways, Raylan supposed. 

Raylan had left Kentucky at nineteen, and he still woke up everyday feeling like the years in between couldn’t cover the distance he’d really traveled--how far he’d put himself out of Harlan County. Admittedly--two drinks and a bag of overpriced peanuts into his flight out of Miami, Raylan remembered feeling like he’d well and truly never see that sandy, filthy, perfected city again. He wondered if, for Tim, that same mentality fell away somewhere over the Atlantic ocean. 

Pushing off from the couch, Raylan stood contemplatively in the living room, thinking he ought to do anything other than he was. 

He crossed the room, opened the sliding glass door, and stepped out onto the porch, book still in hand. Tim didn’t have much of a backyard--not one that he took pains to mow, anyway--but it emptied into a dense selection of wiry trees and then a tall-grassed field. Raylan pegged the space for future housing development, and thought that a pity. The tall, yellowing weeds sucked in light like nectar and, Raylan supposed, looked like a swollen spell of earth at sunset. A golden heartbeat. The entire space was alive with cricket-song and the buzz of summer life.

Beyond the field was Lexington. The buildings were lit up even now in the early evening. 

Raylan felt a presence at his feet and realized it was Tom Hanks, the living dead, curling up around his pants leg. 

“Shit,” Raylan said, uncertain if the cat was permitted outside. He toed the thing back inside, half-shoving it, half-stepping on it. It gave a yelp and Raylan watched it disappear through the door to Tim’s bedroom, left slightly ajar in Tim’s absence. 

Raylan closed the sliding glass door and followed the cat--intending, he supposed, to apologize. 

He stopped short of Tim’s door, feeling as though he ought not needlessly cross another boundary. 

Raylan occupied himself with moving the boxes into his room and unpacking a few things--his jackets, jeans, shirts--as well as making up his bed with the spare sheets of Helen’s he’d brought out of Arlo’s place. Between that and deciding the ice cream had served as a suitable meal, Raylan’s plans for the evening were shot. 

Sitting on Tim’s couch and staring at Tim’s TV led slowly to sitting on Tim’s couch and staring at Tim’s door. 

The realization wormed its way into Raylan’s mind and when it got there, ignited. It was all Raylan could even _think about_ thinking about. The fact of the matter was, he hadn’t lived with another man since college, and he didn’t want a replay of that experience by any margin. He wasn’t too old for drunken fights, but he was too old to start losing them. 

Living with a woman just came naturally to Raylan, who’d have fucked or eventually be fucking her as the situation progressed. Intellectually, Raylan knew it wasn’t shared laundry or space that drove two people together and collided teeth, lips, hands, genitals, and hearts. In whatever variation, those were relationships. They came with expectations. 

Raylan’s expectations of Tim were very tightly held within their workspace: Tim was smart--a bit of a smartass--and invaluable in the field. Raylan originally had him pegged for a pushover, because he’d stay late for Art, run Rachel's errands, or handily deliver on any favor Raylan could dream up. But that wasn’t Tim’s personal self, that was his work mentality, his belief in the cause and dedication to the team. Tim was rarely one to strike out of those simple, narrow confines. 

What eluded Raylan were _Tim’s_ expectations. He’d lived with _only_ men for the better part of his adult life, admittedly in a well and far removed context. Raylan couldn’t even conceive of that environment--the conditioned trust and-- _was it, though?_ \--dependence. Raylan didn’t have a dictionary on hand, but those seemed to be the defining hallmarks of... friendship. 

Tim didn’t seem the type. 

Still, it was the lawman instinct to know what he was up against that uprooted Raylan from the couch and the television, and forged his path into Tim’s bedroom. 

Truthfully, Tim’s room wasn’t so different from Raylan’s, now--that is, empty save for a bed, small table, a dresser, and a few scattered belongings. There was an awkward-looking green chair angled in front of a window, with a familiar-looking paperback sat in the seat. Raylan picked it up and read the title: _God’s Pocket._ He remembered reading it in high school. 

Raylan spotted a few more shitty fantasy novels piled under the bedside table, but the table and dresser tops were otherwise clean. Unlike the pieces Raylan had selected from his old home, Tim’s looked as though he’d looted them from a high school supply room. They were of a poor quality, odd shape, and secured with small key locks. 

_Locks on his sock drawers,_ Raylan smirked, remembering Tim’s attempt at rule-making.

Instinctively, Raylan palmed the dresser and gave it a push, testing its weight. 

It was surprisingly heavy. 

Raylan didn’t have much to show for himself besides a healthy attitude, but what he did have he put on display. 

If the heavy cabinet was any indication, Tim hid everything. 

There was a ceiling fan lofting softly above him, just loud enough for Raylan to take notice. Even if it was working at maximum capacity, Raylan doubted it would produce a wrinkle in the military-tight corners of Tim's bed. The bed covers were plain and dark blue, and made Raylan think of man-made lakes. Somehow, the confirmation of such a stereotype--even one as benign as a strict, regimented tidiness--made Raylan uneasy. Because most of their day was spent behind desks, Tim's dull stare towards his computer screen, tendency to spin idly in his chair when bored, eagerness to partake in any drinking on the clock--celebratory or not--and slow drawl made him seem almost easy-going. All of that was antithetical to Tim's behavior in the field, but maybe Raylan was wrong in thinking the latter figure cut by his younger co-worker was the truest one, if only because that's how Raylan saw himself. 

Raylan stood in the room now feeling a little disappointed. There wasn't much of anything to answer his queries, underdeveloped as they were. Except--

There was a wooden box sat flush with the wall on top of Tim’s makeshift desk. It was about the size of a shoe box, and without a latch. The lid just sat nicely, shaped to fit like a jack-o-lantern top. Raylan only felt marginally guilty about extending a finger and pushing the lid open. 

Inside were three neat piles of photos and an assortment of digital camera memory cards. Raylan studied the top layer before carefully digging out a handful to thumb through, figuring Tim had done the same while shifting things out of his parents’ old bedroom. 

At the bottom of the first stack, Raylan was seeing mountains again--but nothing of the likes in Winona’s coffee table books. They were beautiful, sure--and yeah, there was some mist--but these mountains were daunting. They tore at the landscape, left nothing level, rendered the place virtually unmanageable by man. 

So naturally there was Tim and some equally young men sat out on a ledge, their feet dangling into sky, assault rifles slung across their bodies, looking all kinds of tired, angry, and happy. 

Tim was smiling, anyway. 

Some themes emerged--mountains, Rangers goofing off, injuries, helicopters. Mountain views from _inside a helicopter,_ which Raylan had to admit were pretty goddamn cool. Back on the ground, there were a number of pictures taken inside a small village, Rangers intermingling with locals. Young boys laughing as Tim and another Ranger couldn’t stomach the tobacco pipe an elderly man had shared with them. Raylan quickly skimmed through a macabre collection of dead goat glamour shots, then saw something a little too familiar for his liking: a dead body. Human, male, mid-thirties. Shot clean between the eyes. 

Raylan’s first thought was that Tim hadn’t taken the picture; it was all too focused and neat, and there was no one pulling a face or gesturing rudely--hallmarks of Tim’s earlier work. The next dozen or so photos were of similar subjects: young Afghani men, fatally shot, sprawling bodies unmoved from where they’d fallen in battle. 

The last photo in the set didn’t seem to make sense: it was a hunk of brownish-colored metal resting half-inside a shiny tin. Some liquid--Raylan thought oil or blood, something slick--was stuck to the metal like a delicate glaze. 

In the next set of photos, Raylan found what he supposed was Tim’s impromptu Brazil vacation, and the original theme reemerged: mountains, (ununiformed) Rangers goofing off, _injuries._ In Amsterdam, Tim and a friend were in a crowded bar, again trying their hand at smoking a taste of the local fare. 

Raylan padded the stack evenly with his hands, tightening the edges so it’d fit back into its container. Whatever he was looking for wasn’t going to present itself through amateur war photography and beer pong played at dawn on a balcony overlooking Rio de Janeiro. 

Raylan didn’t make the connection himself, but he and Tim had something in common: neither had photos of their families. 

Granted, Raylan kept a picture of his mother and aunt in their 70s best, as well as a shot of Winona back when she believed they could be happy together. But that was hardly a collection--only a pair, really. Somehow--partly because of his easy friendship with Rachel--Raylan had Tim pegged as having a sister. Tim didn’t have that only-child charm; he espoused a more subdued presence, like he’d been backing peoples’ plays since he was in diapers. 

_Or,_ Raylan realized on the spot, maybe that was a _military thing._

Tim had countless photos with the same background of endless desert or shredded mountains, but under sunglasses and helmets and camo, Raylan would wager even Tim didn’t know half the people in them. There were different noses and chins and skin tones, and none shared even a passing resemblance to Tim, save for looking young. 

Tom Hanks darted out from under Tim’s bed and made for the door. By the time Raylan lifted his head and saw the crooked, tufted tail disappear into the living room, he knew he ought to have followed.

“What are you doing,” Tim asked, flat and slow, as though he was battling his own disbelief seeing that a man so reckless and stupid had survived well into four decades of human life. 

Raylan _just_ managed not to jump. He turned on his heel and saw Tim standing in the doorway. His brow was set in a stern line, running parallel to his tight-lipped expression. There was no question in his greeting; Tim knew exactly what Raylan was doing. 

“Hey,” Raylan said, trying for cool. He gestured loosely at his watch. “I thought you got lost.” 

Although his face was red with warmth and his hair was slick and sweaty-looking, Tim spoke as though the most exertion he’d accomplished was in taking a stroll to the mailbox and back, and not a nearly hour and a half run around his neighborhood. “Naw, ‘cause see, the road that leads away from my house actually leads back to it, also.”

“You figured that out, huh?”

“Yeah. Pro-Tip for you.” Tim wet his lips and straightened his posture. “Here’s another: in some cultures, this could be perceived as rude.”

“Yeah. About that--” Raylan adopted a lazy grin, the kind that charmed women off their bar stools. “I saw a book on your shelf Saturday that I thought looked interesting and couldn’t find it just now, so…”

Tim gave an achingly slow tilt of his head. Raylan could practically hear the change in the air as it set at an angle--a barely-there shift that sounded like a dog-whistle tuned to _bullshit_. “Dude.”

Raylan held out a hand, staying any onslaught of offense or--assault. “That wasn’t my best.”

“I’m out of ways not to say _get out of my room._ ” Tim said. He was calm in a way that put Raylan on edge. “So… I’ll just… stand here. Giving the door… a wide berth.” 

“I think that was the title of the book,” Raylan joked lamely, brushing past Tim. 

The door closed so fast behind him that Raylan felt the air sweep over his neck. 

-

Two hours later, Tim took one step outside his bedroom and sighed, unable to mask his displeasure at seeing Raylan sprawled long-ways across his couch, socked-feet hanging off the end Tim usually favored. It was as though he’d envisioned Raylan gone--or rather, that he’d felt he’d conveyed as much some time ago, directing Raylan out of his bedroom like stalled traffic. 

“Found the book,” Raylan called out to him, raising a flimsy paperback like a white flag. 

“You’re really committing to that, huh,” Tim drawled. He ventured into his kitchen in search of something he could get away with calling a meal.

“Really trying to,” Raylan said, smiling slyly. He sat up and opened his laptop, which he’d sat on the coffee table Tim had rescued from Arlo’s place. Raylan never knew a time that wasn’t ideal for asking favors. “Hey--unless it’s a state secret, you mind sharing your WiFi password?”

Tim took his time filling a glass with tap water, then drinking it in its entirety, _then_ retrieving a protein bar from the fridge, before pacing tiredly over to Raylan. He stared at Raylan’s laptop screen. “First of all, that ain’t my network name.”

“ _Shitty Shitty WiFi I Love You_ ain’t yours?”

Tim pointed to the network above it, listed as _OBrien Family._ “Password is 10-30-03,” Tim paused, allowing Raylan to peck away at his keyboard. He finished, “06-22-07. No breaks.” 

“Birthdays,” Raylan observed, committing them to memory then unwittingly tethering them to Tim’s explanation for his apartment. 

“Or I’m just really committed to the joke,” Tim said, as though he was consciously giving Raylan the out. 

Although he’d taken his time snooping around the place, Raylan took a moment to really look at it. Bare, tidy, entire rooms left empty. Tim seemed about as comfortable here as Raylan. He was a simple occupier, _no different than Raylan,_ in having lucked into a home in which there was space for him. 

Raylan tried to imagine the place fit for the young family Tim had known. Two little girls’ toys and artwork strewn about the place, themselves lying on their bellies on the cool wood floor to forge masterpieces out of cherry-scented markers. Too many leftovers stocked in the too-small fridge. Furniture that came in a set that maybe wasn’t the style the couple wanted, but it had been a much-needed gift. Scattered conversations about reupholstering it. Or having a slipcover made (“Cheaper and washable, too”).

“Hey,” Raylan put the laptop aside and stood to face Tim. “About going into your room.”

“It was weird," Tim said, supplying an answer for him. 

“It was that,” Raylan admitted. 

Tim waited--not at all expecting an apology, nor wanting one, but curious to see how Raylan might play off his little indiscretion. 

He answered it with a joke--something like, _“That’s the last time I listen to a gypsy woman when she tells me where Nazi gold is buried.”_ or some equally stupid nonsense, Tim wasn’t sure. Raylan seemed quick to give up on the effort, too, and he sort of sighed, like he’d meant to offer something of substance, but ended up saying what was expedient. 

Such was his lot in life.

The heart at the response--the idea that Raylan had invaded Tim’s space on some prior order--was inescapable, despite Tim’s best efforts to shrug the thing off. It unnerved Tim, not being clued in to the events around him. When Raylan went off on a tear and disappeared Gary Hawkins, Tim didn’t see fit to press Raylan for details, as he figured Raylan for a liar at the time. It wasn’t until some months afterwards that Tim felt he’d been proven wrong on that assumption. In the meantime, Tim made a few calls, followed a few bank accounts, and in a few days had his answer. Tulsa. A new life. An assumed identity. The same shitty Honda. 

Gary wasn’t the most adventurous sort, but here and now--Tim expected something better from Raylan.

"Did Rachel," Tim started, then faltered. Raylan was quietly shocked; he'd expected at least some level of anger or annoyance, not level-headed interest. Tim pursed his lips some, then fixed them into a meaningless smile. "This ain't some long con, is it? Rachel didn’t ask you to infiltrate my home for some," he waved a hand, lowered his voice, "nefarious purpose?" 

As he was saying the words, Tim wished he could take them back. His tone wasn’t dark enough for a joke; and the question… perhaps wasn’t so outlandish. 

It seemed to be just enough for Raylan, however, who smirked and played along. "Wouldn’t you know it, I left the dossier at work."

He sighed again, aggravated with himself. He watched Tim only wander part-way back to the kitchen, stop, and rest against the partial wall dividing the two spaces. “She has her concerns,” Raylan said, and upon finding he now had an audience, he then tried to clarify: “...General concerns.”

“The fuck is that,” Tim mumbled, tempering his own curiosity for the sake of his pride. He chewed a corner of his protien bar and spoke through the strange texture and bland taste. “As far as I'm concerned, you're here because I have the luxury to allow it.” He swallowed and continued absently, “It ain’t that I pity you or like you at all. I don’t.”

"Tim, I never harbored any illusions that you liked me." 

“Good. Are you beginning to see why?”

Tim’s subtle comeback stung worse than if he’d plain told Raylan off. Unwittingly, Raylan sunk a little deeper into the couch. He cast Tim a chilly, sidelong glance that was all dead eyes and tight lips. “This won’t be a fun time in my life, will it?”

Tim peeled slowly at the little foil wrapper, uncovering his next bite. “It can be any kind of time you want, Raylan.”

Raylan rolled his eyes and determinedly settled into his place on the couch. He even brought his computer into place over his lap, like a paperweight. 

Begrudgingly, he went for his ace in the hole. “There’s, ah--a bottle of bourbon in the pantry. For ya.” 

“Well there you go,” Tim cheered, going for the bottle and raising it high. “It’s going to be a real fun time.” 

But that was about all Tim did, short of disappearing into his bedroom with the bottle and closing the door behind him. 

\- 

Tim pounded twice on Raylan’s door with an open palm, then left himself in. 

“Tim, what the fuck--?” 

Raylan, still half-asleep and twisted in his sheets and bedcovers, very nearly reached for his sidearm. Something in Tim’s open, passive, and pale face stayed his hand. As it was just visible in the particular brand of shadow-light creeping into Raylan’s room from the windows, he watched as Tim blinked heavily and wet his lips. 

"I'm going to switch our mattresses," Tim told him.

"Come again." 

“You’re going to help,” Tim clarified. He voice sounded raw, like he’d tried to salve the burn of bourbon with the patented cure of _copious amounts of more bourbon._

Raylan sat up further in bed. Unlike Tim, who was in a t-shirt and loose-fitting pajama pants, Raylan was clad only in his boxer briefs. “Are you drunk?” Raylan asked, drawing a hand over his face to disrupt his vision of the younger man. He was dismayed to find Tim rooted in his position at the end of Raylan’s bed even after his hand returned to the wrinkled mass of sheets on his bed. “Tim, you’re drunk. Go back to sleep.”

“Nnh.” Tim made a vague sound of opposition and did not retreat.

“Switch mattresses,” Raylan repeated slowly. “Right now.” He was beginning to wonder if this was merely a dream or a joke or _anything_ that made more sense than Tim did, at the moment. Nothing stuck, so Raylan gave in. _“Why?”_

Tim took that as Raylan’s tacit agreement, so he tugged at the end of Raylan’s bed and started to strip away the sheets and covers.

Raylan rattled off a string of swears, but eventually moved to join the effort. 

He watched Tim all the while, cataloguing the man’s unfocused eyes and occasional wet gulps of air as he worked his muscles to the task at hand. Every movement was somehow muted and slow, like Tim was still sloshing his way through that bottle of bourbon he’d stowed away with. 

Tim did end up explaining himself--or trying to. He started talking about Roger Friedman, the man who owned Tim's place as well as a few more locations in the city. Friedman liked the idea of giving back, supporting the troops--so he made his units accessible to soldiers’ families. 

"I think Brian's suicide kind of put him off that, though," Tim said as he took backwards steps out of Raylan’s room, his hands laced under the bottom corner of the mattress. "One bad apple."

"He's renting to you," Raylan's reasoned to the contrary. Seeing the man now, Raylan thought perhaps there wasn’t much of an argument to be made. 

Tim, being near blind-drunk, didn’t observe the irony. He wet his bottom lip thoughtfully and answered, "That's 'cause I told him, what are the odds it'd happen twice in the same house?" 

Raylan didn’t mention the absurd number of people he managed to shoot in his hotel room. _A fluke, surely._ He did, however, take care to continue observing Tim as well as he could, given the circumstances. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t seen Tim drunk before--he was surlier, more talkative, and buzzing warm in the way that men were when angling for a fight. 

While leading Raylan in carrying out his own mattress, Tim backed awkwardly into the couch. He shifted slowly from the kind of drunk that makes a man feel headstrong and assured to the soft, stupid drunkenness that invited uneasy sleep. Raylan was relieved; whatever he’d expected in housing with Tim, it wasn’t rearranging furniture at two in the morning. At least, not for much longer.

While Tim regained his footing, Raylan pressed on, testing Tim’s mental capacities while in such a state. “It’s a nice place. You ever think about making an offer?”

“Ain’t there some rule about marrying the first girl you sleep with? Like, don’t fucking do it?”

“This cannot be the first place you’ve rented. No.” Raylan backed into his bedroom and he and Tim made uneasy work of situating the mattress. It fell into place and rattled the bed frame. “I moved _four times_ in Miami.”

With a mattress returned to his bed, Raylan was of half a mind to leave Tim to his finish the task himself. But Tim kept talking and in some strange way, seemed dependent on Raylan as his audience. 

“R&R was maybe two weeks, at most,” Tim explained as he ventured into the living room and positioned himself to bear half the load of the remaining mattress. Sighing, Raylan went to join him. “Didn’t seem worth the flight to go to Texas and couch surf. So I didn’t go.” With Tim leading the way, the mattress followed a zig-zag path. “I stuck around the neighborhood. Turkey was cool. Oman, Egypt, Lebanon. Made it as far as Greece, once.” 

They set the mattress into place and Raylan surveyed Tim’s room for a second time that evening. Nothing had changed, save for the half-empty bottle of bourbon standing precariously near the edge of Tim’s bedside table. 

Raylan looked at Tim, readying to unleash the kind of telling-off he’d expected to hear from the younger man some hours ago. He was struck instead with a more pressing query: "Wait. Your friend's name was... Brian O'Brien?" 

"No, it was Seamus,” Tim dropped his head into his hands and pressed his palms against his eye sockets, like he’d drunk so much his eyeballs might just bob and float away. Raylan stilled, watching him. Eventually, Tim raised his head. “But that's just mean." 

“Jesus,” Raylan said--in self-pity, mostly. There was some spared for Tim and a little anger directed at Rachel. Mostly, however, Raylan wondered why he hadn’t fucking found himself a better living situation than what amounted to sharing space with one of the most dependable Deputies in the office who was himself, naturally, _a complete headcase._

“Hey.” Tim looked at Raylan, bleary-eyed and unfocused. _“Get out of my room.”_

\- 

In the morning, Tim made coffee. This was after he’d spent a long while staring at the pile of sheets on his floor, the off-center mattress with its rust-colored stains, and the half-empty bottle of bourbon that had started it all. There was an explanation for all this--but Tim didn’t have it. His tongue was dry and his lips were chapped, and Tim didn’t need a mirror to confirm his eyes were bloodshot and watery. While waiting for the drip to finish, Tim drummed his fingers anxiously on the countertop, wondering why he hadn’t taken some kind of precaution--maybe barricaded his door or finished the bottle, drinking himself into a coma rather than a craze. 

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated and angry. He did have an explanation: when Tim drank himself into such a state, he usually didn’t have anyone within close proximity to harass. Tom Hanks didn’t put up with Tim’s bullshit; he could fit under the couch. Tim hadn’t known he’d target Raylan and fixate on the mattress he’d shucked from its plastic wrapping and dank hiding place in the basement, on O’Brien’s bloodstains and the fact that they had been in not just Raylan’s room, but the man’s _daughters’ room._ Seeing it there-- _putting it there_ \--hadn’t been right. The idea had been in Tim’s head as soon as he’d moved the thing, but the bourbon had cradled the thought, encouraged it, and propelled Tim to retrieve what he’d lost. 

Because the soiled mattress in Raylan’s makeshift room wasn’t how Tim remembered it, and here the bourbon again lent itself to Tim’s aid, returning him to that terrible morning. It hung like a painting at the backs of his eyes: O’Brien staring out the window of the master bedroom, the one that offered a sweeping view of the backyard and the woods beyond it. O’Brien seeing something his pleading wife couldn’t. 

Tim, his own weapon raised, threatening to shoot his buddy if he dared to taste the barrel of his glock to his tongue. 

O’Brien pointing, unafraid of Tim’s threats. Then Tim seeing it, too, and hesitating.

The drip stopped and the coffee machine whined and gave a visible sigh of hot, wet air. The saturated vapor reached Tim’s nose and drew him out of his thoughts.

Tim had about drank the entire pot when Raylan shuffled out of his room.

“After the special night we shared?” Raylan grumbled, handling the empty pot. 

“If I’m lucky I won’t remember it for years to come,” Tim drawled, downing the last cup. He kept his eyes pinned to the newspaper he wasn’t reading while Raylan bit back yet another smart reply. The senior Marshal got the distinct feeling he’d soon come to perfect that little sense of propriety that told him not to drudge up a drunk man’s morose tales and sorry actions. He knew from experience they made even less sense the second time around. 

But Raylan wasn’t Raylan if he wasn’t somehow annoying Tim. 

“You know, your mattress smells like a bar rag.”

“Shame you can’t choke on my mattress.”

Tim, however, was nothing if not pragmatic. He made a fresh pot of coffee before leaving ahead of Raylan for work.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot! No plot, just kidding.  
> Also, I lied about the cheerleader. Raylan will _wow_ with his moves next chapter.

When he and Rachel got a late lunch after seizing some ill-gotten gains from a laser-tag joint, and Rachel asked over french fries and a chocolate milkshake, _“How is it, really?”_ Raylan found himself answering honestly, _“Really weird.”_

The first night had been a crash course in what Raylan supposed was among the worst he could expect, as Tim relaxed considerably and their nights since were without incident. After that, he’d had a week to settle into Tim’s place and figure himself around Tim’s routine. A routine that--admittedly--mostly escaped Raylan’s notice. 

Tim got up early every morning and ran; Raylan could hear him say 'bye' to the cat each time he left. It was always something Raylan found oddly endearing-- _bye, buddy. Seeya, champ._ \--but he never brought himself to tease Tim about it. It was all just a hair too quiet, too sincere that Raylan thought better of making a joke of it.

Tom Hanks was, of course, himself a joke. He must have been shitty looking even before Tim caught him under the tire of his car, because the thing looked _rough_. Common tabby stripes and spots overlayed scars and balding patches. Raylan was constantly of a mind that the thing had mange. It moved slowly, cycling around Tim and generally avoiding Raylan. 

Tim even got a small, stupid smile on his face every time the damn thing found its way into his lap. If ever Tim was inclined to scoop the creature up in his arms--once, to keep it out of the path of a shattered bottle that had tumbled out from the recycling bin--he’d press a nondescript kiss to the top of its head. In reality, it was just lips pressed to oily fur; there was nothing sweet, nothing darling about it. 

But how the fuck was he meant to explain that to Rachel? _He kisses his cat, but not like he means it._

So although she’d asked, Raylan found himself unable to provide specific and damning examples of Tim’s bizarre living habits. Just that morning, Tim had been watching an episode of _The X-Files_ when Raylan awoke. “Look at this oatmeal sweater-wearing fuck,” Tim had said as Raylan tiredly poured himself a cup of coffee, of which Tim now routinely made more.

“I’m looking,” Raylan had said. “What am I looking at?”

Tim had turned his head and frowned at him, angry-like, as though Raylan had been tactically eavesdropping. “It’s just an expression.”

It didn’t seem so strange out of the context of Tim engaging with Raylan in that way. At least, such was Rachel’s opinion as she cut Raylan with a particularly skeptical look over the domed plastic top of her milkshake.

“And another thing,” Raylan started, thinking he had a winner.

Tim may have mentioned the grocery down the road, but he clearly did not shop there; the amount of fresh and dried fruits, nuts, and protein bars spoke damningly of routine Whole Foods ventures. His pantry and fridge were laden with plastic containers like Raylan had known his aunt Helen to keep cat food in, after mice started chewing through the bag. Even opening a few, Raylan couldn’t always tell what was inside. 

Tim ate everything with his hands, and Raylan wasn’t even certain he had forks and knives until he went in search of them, finding only a mismatched collection from restaurants and take-out orders. 

The weirdest thing in Tim’s possession, Raylan had quickly determined, was the enormous bags of what he’d mistakenly pegged as some off-brand kitty litter. 

_Mulberries,_ Tim had corrected when Raylan saw him eating a handful. 

(“Cancer, insomnia, hypertension, high cholesterol, constipation, hepatitis, gray hair,” Tim looked pointedly at Raylan, “Mulberries cure all.” 

Raylan wasn’t convinced--first, that a pimply-looking fruit could deliver on such promises; and second, that Tim believed they could. “You’re full of shit.”

“Not since the mulberries,” Tim said, popping a few more into his mouth.)

Rachel issued Raylan another withering look. “So your big discovery is that Tim eats healthy. Like I couldn’t have figured that by just looking at him.” She rolled her eyes and took a hungry bite out of her burger. “What next, does he take shits like the rest of us?”

Although he recognized it likely came at the cost of his rumored promotion, Raylan had to admit--he liked this angrier Rachel. She gave Raylan precisely _zero_ slack and demanded from him good, timely work--specifically put, “what they’re paying you extra for.” 

They were sat in a little out-of-the-way diner that, to Raylan, looked like the kind of place a hoard of Quentin Tarantino characters might plot a robbery. They both had plates of fat, meaty burgers, piles of fries, and accompanying milkshakes. Rachel’s hair was pulled back in an impeccable bun and, despite having sat out in a van for the greater part of the morning, her gray suit was pristine. Her shiny Deputy’s star hung on a simple chain around her neck, bouncing easily against the pale blue of her blouse. Given all that--and Raylan, meanwhile, in his cowboy hat, jeans, and wrinkled plaid shirt--the pair looked like a cop sitting down to lunch with her most recent arrest. 

“You know,” Raylan volunteered between a mouthful of Rachel’s fries and a gulp of his own vanilla milkshake, “He did ask if you’d put me up to living with him for some,” Raylan recalled Tim’s exact phrasing, “ _nefarious purpose._ I was kinda flattered.” 

“Why’s that?”

Raylan grinned at her. “Because it makes _you_ the villain.” 

Rachel moved her plate of fries out of Raylan’s reach. “How are you liking Tom Hanks?”

“I will not call it by that name,” Raylan said, exasperated--like he’d had this very conversation one too many times already. “That man went to space camp. That _cat_ was stupid enough to be hit by a parked car.” But Raylan shook his head and surrendered, nonetheless, one simple fact: “That cat’s the only one really living there,” he said. “I come and go. _Tim_ comes and goes.”

Initially, Raylan was shocked by how much living with Tim was like the single night Tim spent on the floor of his hotel room, sleeping lightly and keeping guard. In Tim’s little house, the former sniper operated outside Raylan’s line of sight; he didn’t seem present and more often than not, kept so rigidly to himself that Raylan presupposed his absence. In some measure, Raylan hoped his attendance, for Tim, was similarly unintrusive. 

He doubted it, though. 

Raylan was a presence and he knew it even without women in bars slinking up to him and issuing the phrase as some kind of compliment, shorthand for _you’ve got a nice ass._ Raylan knew it at nineteen because, hell, it took a force of nature to get out of Harlan County.

Rachel swirled the candy cane-striped straw around her chocolate milkshake. “Lotta guns at his place?”

As though the direction of questioning had given him whiplash, Raylan cocked his head. “He’s got the one, then a back-up, some souped-up rifle,” he paused, “and of course, there’s the room of grenades and pipe bombs.”

“But no more guns,” Rachel clarified, smirking.

Raylan moved the palm of his left hand like he was testing the heat of the diner table. “I honestly wouldn’t know,” he said. “Hell, I’ve seen him clean his rifle, but he doesn’t fondle the parts none. It’s all kept above the waist.” 

“Is he religious?”

Raylan nearly choked on his burger. “Is he religious? Is he circumcised? What are you after here, Rachel?”

“I’m just curious!” Rachel defended. She hadn’t expected such opposition to simple questions. But then, she had to be mindful of who she was talking to: Raylan Givens, subject of countless AUSA investigations. His learning to be wary of any line of questioning was merely a welcome evolutionary turn. “I know you’ve got the two guns and aren’t religious,” she shrugged, “Because you’ve told me.”

Raylan had to admit--Tim didn’t _tell him_ things, either. He could only answer here what he inferred from sharing a space with him. He sucked indignantly on the meager remains of his iced treat. “Hell, Rachel, you can access state census data. Make an educated guess.” 

“Do I really gotta send out a questionnaire when you live with the man?” 

Giving into her concern, Raylan allowed: “He may have mentioned… scary Jesus.” He chewed thoughtfully. “Not sure if that means Catholic or Baptist.” 

“Catholic,” Rachel said, wrinkling her nose. When Raylan scoffed, Rachel elaborated: “He’s _still bleeding!_ And still on the cross! You go there every week and he’s still there!” 

Rachel then laughed weakly at herself and shook her head. “Sorry. Ignore that. Joe was Catholic.”

Raylan tipped his hat back and sported a half-grin to showcase his teeth. “Well this is a much more interesting story than all the things Tim doesn’t do.” 

Rachel pursed her lips. “I don’t give two shits about Joe, but Tim still ain’t right.” 

“That boy of ours,” Raylan lamented wit a put-upon sigh. “Is he religious, does he keep weapons around the house,” he ticked off Rachel’s queries on his fingers. “Are you asking after a co-worker or profiling a serial killer?”

“Any dismembered body parts in his fridge?” 

Raylan quirked a smile. “Not so many as cause for alarm.” 

\- 

It took Raylan another two weeks of living with Tim to get a handle on the situation, and by that time he wasn’t sure what--if anything--he felt inclined to pass along to Rachel. 

Partly, he felt a shift in his allegiance from the woman who got him the place, to the man who was letting him stay there. Raylan began to rationalize his choice, too, because wHat sense was there in telling Rachel that Tim indulged in childish pastimes? Even Tim’s vaguely dissociative attitude about the whole thing wasn’t for show. He wasn’t stupid, but there was something of a blindspot for any man who planned his most recent Saturday night around two things: alcohol and the trilogy of _Troll_ films. Of the movies he watched and books he read--Tim shrugged off any curious commentary with a hard stare and a simple, “Fuck you, I like them.”

But Raylan didn’t have him pegged as really and truly numb to the realities of what he’s seen and done, or at all ignorant of the lasting effects of those things. After Raylan made his jokes or cast a speculative eye, he noticed that--slowly--Tim’s things started to disappear. The _Harry Potter_ series stacked on the bottom rung of his bookshelf was regulated to his bedroom, same as other similar youth-orientated titles. 

For as often as he seemed to regress into more peaceful pastimes, Tim could operate fully on the other side of the spectrum: he frequented the shooting range on the other side of town several days a week, found his way into the occasional bar brawl, or drank until one was started. 

Tim drank a great deal--not just with meals or nursing a bottle while watching a film, but heavily, and purposefully. If he wasn’t going out, Tim ended most nights with a bottle of something cheap and effective, allowing him to pass out, then transition into sleep sometime in the night. It wasn’t often that Tim _didn’t_ make it back to his bedroom, but there were some mornings when it was clear he’d never made it off the couch. 

Still, he’d take his hangover out for a run every morning. Raylan supposed that’s why Tim had such a surly disposition; he didn’t feel well. No drunk would, sweating out his haul from the night before. From this, Raylan learned what he knew would settle Rachel’s nerves, if only he could put the sentiment into the right words. Tim was all highs and lows, mountains and valleys. Most functioning alcoholics Raylan knew fit that description. Better than that, however--Tim didn’t just _function._ He continued. He soldiered, for lack of a better word. 

He wasn’t happy doing it, but showed no signs of stopping. 

Their living together was no one-sided experiment on Raylan’s part. Except when he was drinking, Tim was constantly observing his surroundings--Raylan in particular. (Raylan had come to calling him on it, too, when Tim’s eyes stuck to Raylan’s back for just a second too long, or when he flexed his hand when Raylan surprised him. _I feel like you’re readying to shoot me, when you do that._ ) 

Because Raylan gave him shit for the quality of his little library, Tim learned that Raylan was a ferocious reader, of all things. He’ll pull the odd item from Tim’s shelf, but preferred the classics. When he’d find the odd copy at a used bookstore, they came to occupy Tim’s shelves, too. Without Harlan, Raylan was around a lot more than Tim expected, lounging, a book in hand, with Tom Hanks curled up against him. The latter was a new addition to the scene; Tom Hanks was slow to warm to Raylan, but they didn’t disturb each other. In fact, they were kind of alike.

While Tim learned about Raylan, Raylan was forced to learn a little more about himself. Without Harlan to disappear to quite so often, Raylan discovered time for obscure things like _hobbies,_ previously known to him only as what he could tease Art about doing upon his retirement. 

It wasn’t just that Raylan didn’t go to Harlan anymore--less and less, the place ceased to preoccupy his thoughts. Most everyone he knows there is dead or in prison, save for Boyd Crowder. Entire ruling family structures were in shambles. Raylan figured Detroit would work to make a name for itself there, but so far its presence hadn’t been cause for his attention. The fact was, Raylan found himself to be more… _present_ , rather than on dirt roads, transitioning between his work and his past. 

It was an interesting place to find himself in; Raylan was like Tim in that way--he’d never not been busy or felt hounded. And with Winona and the baby ever heavy on his mind, Raylan didn’t seek out the distraction of bars and nights out. There was suddenly so much _time_ and Raylan found--to his dismay--that he could not develop it so much as simply use it up. 

Tim seemed to recognize that hurdle, and in turn was patient with Raylan, whose restlessness seemed unwavering.

On Tim’s television, Raylan’s Netflix picks started to intermingle with Tim's, and although Raylan didn't know when he had the time to do it, _Star Trek: Deep Space Nine_ kept jumping ahead of Raylan's most recently watched Ken Burns documentary series.

One Sunday, Tim goaded Raylan into watching _Orange is the New Black._ “For research,” Tim insisted, but after a few episodes was himself disappointed. “I thought it’d be like _Oz._ ” 

“You wanted them killing each other or fucking each other?”

“I’d have liked for someone be to set on fire.” 

“Crazy Eyes pissed on the floor, that ain’t enough for you?”

“Should have done it in someone’s face. Missed opportunity.”

It was one of the rare instances in which their respective selves decidedly took refuge on the couch and accepted the other as _company._

Generally, they hardly spoke to one another--in passing, or even while occupying the same space. Tim, _fuck him,_ had even taken to knocking twice on a wall or countertop to get Raylan’s attention. One evening wherein they both returned from work late, hungry, their stomachs only lined with a few fingers of celebratory bourbon, Tim knocked twice and held up a newspaper coupon for pizza. And Raylan-- _fucking fuck him_ \--answered in turn, signaling with a weak thumbs up. 

A great deal went unsaid in the little space they shared, too, simply because those things were overheard. 

Like any old home, the walls were thin and at night, Raylan could hear every quiet turn: Tom Hanks picking at the carpet, a strong wind rattling the windows--and Tim, waking no later than 6:30am. When he video-chatted with his Army buddies in the middle of the night, he swore and laughed more than Raylan had ever heard him, and made some downright foul jokes so that his buddies laughed in turn. 

If he headed out, it was late and never for very long. Time enough for a few drinks. Tim took only his wallet, keys, and phone. Without his badge or his gun, Raylan figured he couldn’t be up to anything too interesting. 

If he didn’t make with the return leg, he’d be back early for a run, a shower, and work. He slept in four hour stints, and Raylan could only guess what that was about. 

(It didn’t jog in Raylan’s head until one morning when he opened the balcony door to air out the kitchen after burning eggs on the stove. The sound of the sliding glass door was one that he heard without fail, every evening Tim stepped out. He was taking the cigarettes with him. 

“You goin’ running in those pants?” Raylan asked one evening, because he was still awake and catching the end of a film as Tim emerged from his bedroom in a t-shirt and snug jeans. Tim never claimed he was running, but Raylan liked to think that by omission, Tim was lying about whatever he was doing. 

Tim shrugged into a jacket. “It’s a cotton blend, so.” 

Raylan laughed. “Go get ‘em, you little heartbreaker.” 

Tim brandished his middle finger but didn’t, Raylan noticed, retrieve his cigarettes.)

There was another thing Raylan learned some nights in: if Tim didn’t disappear into his bedroom and drink himself into a stupor, he had a very different kind of evening. 

Raylan never awoke to shouting or screaming, but he could hear just as well what was going on in Tim’s bedroom. In his sleep, Tim would start into shallow, chopping breathing, coupled with some tossing and turning across the entirety of his his mattress. When finally the images flashing at the backs of his eyes were too much and he awoke, Tim concentrated on swallowing air and not huffing it. It normally took him several minutes time to begin breathing normally. 

Sometimes Raylan thought he heard the inhale of snot, and tried not to think about Tim crying. 

Usually, these nightmares drove Tim out of bed and into the house, where he paced or stood before the open fridge, chugging a glass of _something._ Sometimes he’d locate the cat and would pet the thing for the remainder of the night. Raylan remembered Tim doing that exactly twice; Tom Hanks’ eager purr was so loud and unwavering it might as well have been a broken radiator wired up to speakers and angled towards Raylan’s door. If not for the overwhelming desire _not_ to interact with Tim at that exact moment, Raylan would have climbed out of bed and chased the damn cat into the basement.

Raylan’s path only intersected with Tim’s once in this way. Raylan was leaving the bathroom as Tim was hunched over the kitchen sink, chin dropped to his chest, looking ill. They barely glanced at each other, but Raylan could see enough: Tim’s cheeks were red and his eyes were bright like an animal’s. His undershirt stuck to his back but hung from his chest, sodden with sweat. 

“You been out runnin’?” A frivolous question, but Raylan wasn’t about to ask after Tim’s well-being.

“Just baying at the moon,” Tim drawled. It was then that Raylan noticed Tim looked a bit peaky, his skin waxy instead of warm, like the sweat ought to have indicated. 

“Had a dog that did that when I was a kid,” Raylan said, although he hadn’t intended to. “My aunt Helen got us another dog, and he stopped.” 

He was tired and, truthfully, always felt a little compelled to say what he’d later reflect on as _weird things_ to Tim when _he_ was acting weird. A twisted form of empathy, maybe, but again--Raylan was tired. Even the best of his cowboy-lawman philosophy didn’t hold up well between the morning hours of two and four. 

In no mood for Raylan’s dreamy and needless commentary, Tim pushed off from the sink. “So get me a litter of labradoodles or shut the fuck up."

Although Raylan started into wakefulness at Tim’s late-night antics, he’d mostly taken care not to make his unintended awareness known. He had no wisdom to impart, no answers for a young, unsettled mind. It took a lifetime, but Raylan was content with his deeds--crimes, too, sometimes, but always necessary. And _right._

He played out the odd conversation he’d have with Tim, if ever he was compelled to do so. _Was it necessary? Then it was right._

Raylan had learned it the other way around, however, and figured whatever kept Tim up at all hours was something he’d done right. 

And Raylan had no answers, there.

\- 

Tim arrived home to find that Raylan had destroyed his coffee maker; glass from the pot and water filter was shattered and strewn about the counter and floor. Raylan had a magazine in both hands and was attempting to sweep up the pieces. 

Tim sighed, taking in the sight. “You know if it makes decaf, it’s because you’ve fucked up.” 

Raylan glared at the floor. “Winona thought she was going into labor. Early.”

“So her untimely uterus broke in here and did this,” Tim surmised, surveying the shattered mess.

“That was three days ago,” Raylan continued through gritted teeth. He still hadn’t looked at Tim. “She thought she was having the baby a month early and didn’t see fit to give me a call. What she _did fucking tell me_ was she thought about it, and when she really _is_ having the thing, I ought not expect a call then, neither.” Raylan had given up with the makeshift broom and was plucking the larger shards and dropping them into what remained of the pot when the glass broke away from the plastic handle, and all the pieces scattered again. “God _damnit_.”

“I got this,” Tim said, stooping tiredly to greet Raylan’s mess. He waved a hand, shooing away Raylan’s sorry efforts. “Why don’t you go do something less destructive, like drive a car or handle firearms.” 

Raylan got to his feet, determined. “I’m gonna call her back.”

“ _Less_ destructive,” Tim said, then allowed Raylan to stew a while longer. He picked up the pieces he could, retrieved a broom from its corner in the pantry, and swept up the rest. Although it went against his better judgment, Tim offered his advice: “Send her something. A diaper flotilla. Write a nice note. Make her feel like shit.”

Raylan, who was likely thinking along these lines himself, favored Tim with a dry look. “Christ, Tim, how is it you don’t have a girlfriend, again?”

“Must be the same reason I’m not fathering children a state away,” Tim mumbled. “I’m doin’ something wrong, that’s for fuckin’ sure.” 

His frustration now turning from Winona to Tim, Raylan snapped: “Where do you go all the time?”

“I have a very active social life,” Tim responded dully while taking a knee and producing a second coffee maker from a bottom cabinet beside the dishwasher. It was sleek and shined with enough chrome that it might be better suited stuck to the hood of a cadillac. 

“Fuck!” Raylan exclaimed, pissed that he’d even spent a second of his time concerned about having broken one shitty appliance in Tim’s kitchen, where here he had stashed away something nice. “How do you have a second coffee maker?”

Tim looked upon him gravely. “I knew this day would come.”

This--Raylan hated _this_ the most. Tim’s inability to provide simple answers, or to forgo them for meaningless jokes. Trying to parse truths from stone-faced lies or bizarre tales was exhausting. “Can you just--fucking--answer my first question,” Raylan had to fight not to yell his query. It came out in phrases snapped in half and forced through bared teeth. _“Where is it. That you go. And can I get a drink there?”_

\- 

By the time Raylan dragged himself off a barstool, the night was late but his belly was warm. Winona was just a fuzzy presence in the back of his mind--she had been, in fact, since he dropped a healthy sum on a few too many fingers of aged bourbon. Feeling good and drunk, it took a few tries to fit his key into the door. Raylan entered the house quietly, aware of the late hour but more dedicated, rather, to maintaining the sweet, soft silence that had filled his head like cotton. 

The dream was lost some seconds after stepping into Tim’s house whereupon Raylan saw a figure that was decidedly _not_ Tim-shaped. It didn’t move like Tim, didn’t smell like Tim. In the light from the open refrigerator, Raylan saw that it _wasn’t_ Tim. Faster than he could even reason doing it, Raylan got a hold of the man, shoving him and twisting his head like a corkscrew between his arms. If he’d had his gun on him, cornering the guy would have been a lot neater.

Well. 

So long as he didn’t shoot.

Hearing the commotion--the man in Raylan’s grip was shouting _whoa, whoa, whoa_ and little else--Tim appeared just outside of his bedroom, his body angled toward the kitchen and the _second_ scene Raylan saw fit to make there. “You raiding my fridge, Raymond?”

Raylan frowned. “Raymond?”

“I know, it ain’t my first choice, neither.” Tim’s voice was slow and wet; Raylan immediately pegged him as drunk, a fact which certainly helped smooth the edges of the picture falling into place. 

Like Raymond, Tim was only in a tank top and underwear. 

“You know him?” Raylan demanded, not yet willing to loosen his hold. 

“We are acquainted.” 

For a moment, Raylan just stared. His mind was swimming but there was Tim, bobbing easily just above him, somehow willing Raylan to believe there was sense to be made of this strange little meeting. Hell if Raylan's could parse it out, drunk or not. Slowly, Raylan released Raymond, who was now red-faced and gasping for breath. “Shit, Tim.” Raylan sounded a little disappointed, now, but not shameful--there was enough liquor in him to see that he didn’t even _know_ shame. “I thought he was breaking and entering.” 

Raymond backed quickly away from Raylan and stood by Tim. “He’s a guest,” Tim clarified. To Raymond's dismay and Raylan's confusion, he seemed completely unfazed by the whole ordeal--like he'd expected Raylan to manhandle his visitors. “We discussed guests.”

“Yeah, yeah we did but--” Raylan was shaking his head now, unable to make sense of Tim’s cool demeanor, his careful cageyness. “If it was a cute little blonde thing, I wouldn’t have put her in a headlock.”

“That’s sexist,” Raymond piped up. 

“He’s got a point,” Tim agreed, his eyes fixed on Raylan's. "'Sides, maybe I'm the cute little blonde thing." 

Raylan just stared, bewildered. 

“I think I’m gonna go,” Raymond announced, glancing between Raylan and Tim.

“You don’t gotta go,” Tim countered, eyes flicking only briefly at the man who was about his height, but dark-haired, a little bulkier, and smooth-chested, whereas Tim was liberally dusted with light hairs. 

Raylan stared at the pair (although not quite comprehending the use of that word).

Tim’s comment seemed to settle things in both corners, and with a hand smoothing over his sore throat, Raymond disappeared into Tim’s room. 

Raylan slumped against the refrigerator door, defiant. “You were serious about your _no girls_ rule, huh?”

Tim’s hands drew into fists at his sides, but any frustration he felt having seen his co-worker and housemate put his guest into a headlock didn’t quite meet his face. Or if it was there, he’d schooled it from his features. Tim spoke calmly, even dreamily. His smooth brow and placid expression betrayed nothing. “Goodnight, Raylan.”

“Raylan?" Raymond repeated. Buried in his questioning tone was a subtle accusation: where did this headlock-enthusiast hillbilly get that kind of name? 

"I know, right?" 

\- 

Raylan awoke to an empty apartment. It wasn’t long before Tim put his key through the door and yanked out his earbuds, the music still blaring. Raylan thought it sounded a little dated for Tim, but rightly had it pegged as early AC/DC before Tim swept a thumb over the device, silencing it. 

"Raymond already take off?" Raylan asked over a cup of coffee and Tim's newspaper. 

Tim caught the smirk Raylan weakly tried hiding, and would have frowned if he wasn’t still working to catch his breath. "Why, you wanted to say goodbye? Maybe body slam him this time?"

Tim disappeared first into the bathroom where he took a leak and showered, and then into his bedroom. In scarcely ten minutes time, he’d readied for work. 

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Raylan said, picking up their conversation as Tim poured himself a cup of coffee and stood, hugging the counter as he took a sip. “Little relieved, really.” He gestured loosely around Tim’s empty little house with its simple set-up and nondescript accompaniments. “Weird shit had to come in somewhere.”

“What weird shit,” Tim asked carefully, frowning into his coffee. 

“Getting… sucked off by a dude.” Perhaps it wasn’t much for breakfast small talk, but it was Raylan's best guess to explain Tim's late night visitor. “Take it where you can get it, son. That’s no crime.” 

Tim blinked. Slowly. “I’m gay. Fuckin’ _idiot._ ” 

“Oh.” 

Raylan licked his lips. Maybe it was his hangover, but the exact term had not even crossed his mind. “That was my next guess.” He started to take another drink of coffee, then stopped. "Wow. Really?"

“That wasn’t an invitation for your opinion,” Tim grunted. “‘M finishing my coffee.”

He practically chugged the rest and then went into his bedroom for his badge and weapon. When he crossed through the kitchen again, he plucked his key from the counter. Raylan saw this and stood, meaning to stop his hasty departure. He pressed a hand against Tim’s arm; Tim stopped like he’d hit a brick wall.

“I didn’t want to offend you,” Raylan said, figuring he ought to say something. Tim didn’t appear particularly concerned to be having this conversation with his co-worker, a Marshal his senior in not just years but rank, too. But then, Raylan supposed, _Tim didn’t appear to be a lot of things._

Interested in hearing Raylan out was another thing Tim wasn’t. He worked his jaw for a moment like he was chewing something horizontally. Then, very coolly, Tim shrugged away Raylan’s hand. “If I ain’t offended by a dick in my mouth, d’you really think there’s much worse _you_ can do?” 

Tim brushed past Raylan and left promptly for work. 

\- 

Later that evening, when Tim left the courthouse just a hair shy of early and Raylan found excuses to stay late, they both figured the other wanted some distance. 

Without the regular trips to Harlan, Raylan found that his evenings had really opened up. Even after pulling some overtime, he perused a bookstore, flirted with the cashier, and arrived at Tim’s place still in the early evening hours. It didn’t strike him right away--summer days had that gruesome little habit of being long and leisurely, and if Raylan was honest with himself, there was no denying his staying at Tim’s had made his life considerably more leisurely--but the neighborhood was too-warm and too-loud. Turning into Tim’s driveway, Raylan realized there wasn’t so much as a streetlamp lit in the area. The headlights of his town car were the only source of light in the entire neighborhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: In my world, Tim is gay. Always. Because it makes sense, makes me happy, and because TV needs more badass hero types who are gay as Christmas.  
> So, carrying on, this will feature in the story. The d be all over the place.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is whackadoo. 
> 
> Warning: violence around children.

In the wet heat of a scattered blackout, Raylan Givens couldn’t see anything more than what was ahead of him. 

The front door was thrown open like a party, but it was something round the back of Tim’s little house that caught Raylan’s attention. There were--sounds. Not the noises Tim made when half-humming, half-singing to himself, but actual coherent tones and breaks. _Voices,_ Raylan convinced himself as he started around the house to investigate.

He made his way down the steep slope of lawn and stood against the house, completely shadowed. He saw Tim’s feet hanging off the deck and a young woman partway up the stairs and draped inelegantly over the wood railing. She wore only barely-there jean shorts and a blue sports bra, and Raylan figured her for a real nice girl. 

“Shouldn’t be much longer,” Tim was telling her in his most assuring drawl. “Give it two more hours, and I’ll bring over a generator.”

The girl snapped her fingers and favored Tim with an approving smile. “ _That’s_ what I’ve been waiting to hear.”

“So all that askin’ about my day...?” Tim trailed off in mock-disappointment. 

The girl laughed, and it was a full-bodied affair. Even the kinky, curly mass of hair knotted and fanned out on the top of her head shook. “Lies and deceptions, my dear.” Then, pursing her lips, she added, “You shouldn’t smoke.”

“But I’m also drinking,” Tim said. Raylan heard the slos of liquid and thud of a glass bottle against the deck’s wood railing.

“Yeah,” the girl allowed, “But when you smoke your fingers remind me of E.T., and that’s not a cute look for you.”

“I will take that into careful consideration, thank you.”

“Anytime, Tim.” She leaned over the railing of the stairs and grasped one of Tim’s feet, giving it a playful tug. Descending the stairs two at a time, she spotted Raylan in his hiding place.

“Oh, hey there,” she glanced from Raylan to Tim, then back to Raylan. “You’re Raylan, right? We haven’t met. I live--well, I won’t tell you where I live.” She laughed like she’d told a fantastic joke. 

Raylan cocked his head and swaggered down the rest of the slope into the flat area under Tim’s porch. “He told you about me, then?”

Her laughed turned uneasy. “Um.”

Above them, Tim swung his legs. “Go on and tell me,” he sing-songed, “that ‘serial killer,’ _by its definition,_ ain’t what you are.” 

“I prefer the term justice-enthusiast,” Raylan said, charming the young woman with a tip of his hat. Above them, Tim giggled into the mouth of his beer bottle.

“I’m Yvonne, friend of Tim’s.” The girl stuck out her hand and, squinting through the dark, Raylan was eventually able to find and shake it.

“Well any friend of Tim’s…” 

“That can’t be how you do it!” Tim decried the move from the cheap seats. 

“Well I don’t usually have an audience, Tim,” Raylan shot back before turning his attention back to the woman with the blinding white smile and impossibly short shorts. “Good to meet you, Yvonne. Shame I can’t see you.”

“Wow,” Tim pronounced dully. 

Yvonne fanned her hand in front of her face. “Wow is right, Tim. I can taste the alcohol from here.”

“Hey,” Tim warned, then trailed off.

“Hey, yourself,” Yvonne grinned back. “Two hours!” 

Raylan climbed the stairs and watched the woman retreat across a number of fenceles backyards until she disappeared from sight. “She seems nice.”

“She’s a cheerleader at UK,” Tim offered. “She and her two housemates. Always doin’ flips and shit, limbering up in the yard…”

“Really?”

“Jesus Christ, she’s twenty-one.”

Raylan joined Tim on the deck. In a soaked-through t-shirt and shorts that were riding up his thighs, Tim sat ass-flat on the wood platform, bare legs fit easily through the spacious railing and swinging in the warm, wet air. He had a case of beer resting at his side like a trusted sidekick. Tim had also dug his cigarettes out of the potted cactus, and fashioned for himself a tiny source of light.

“Hey, that is pretty cool.” 

Tim gave a soft snort and handed Raylan a beer.

“Little counter productive, though,” Raylan added, accepting the offer. He stared along with Tim for a moment at the far-away, darkened city scape before shrugging his jacket off his shoulders and then starting in on the buttons of his dress shirt. 

The sliding glass door was open to the living room and Raylan stepped inside. 

“Jesus,” he said, tasting the stifling air in the house and understanding at once why Tim had opened the space up to the warmth outside. While inconsistent, the odd, blissful breeze swept through the place.

Raylan removed his shirt, and only hesitated a moment before unzipping his jeans. Tim glanced back during his moment of doubt, and although swallowed by darkness, the look on his face was plainly a little smug and a little sorry, but entirely cynical. 

Just to put the younger man in his place--and, really, because it was hot in numbers most commonly associated with the devil and his taint--Raylan stripped himself of his undershirt, too, before joining Tim on the little balcony in only his boxers. Sat in one of the small patio chairs, Raylan nursed his beer and they sat in silence, watching their blackened city shift and move, uncomfortable in the heat and dark. 

“Jesus,” Raylan said again, wiping his brow.

Like his own, Tim’s hair was damp and curling with sweat. A few stray locks busied his forehead, making Tim look sweet, despite his literal handfuls of vices. When he took a long drag on his cigarette, he closed his eyes, clearly enjoying it. 

Raylan, in turn, swallowed about a third of his beer. It was only slightly cool, but still a welcome relief. “Now, I wasn’t there, but I seem to recall that _someone_ was bitching about not having a lighter when it came time to blow up a car.” 

“Oh,” Tim volunteered with mock cheer. “Me.”

There wasn’t much to the story, Tim supposed as he contemplated answering Raylan at all. Nothing inspiring about a simple failure.

“I was tryin’ to quit,” Tim said, then rolled his eyes. “But then I realized that lives depended on it, so.” He snubbed out the slim remains of his cigarette and deposited it in an empty beer bottle--where Raylan saw that it wasn’t Tim’s first of the evening. Tim raised the crinkled pack to Raylan. “You want?” 

Raylan waved a hand. “Don’t care for it, strangely enough.” 

“Of all the stupid shit you do, you don’t smoke?” Tim grinned. “That is strange.”

Crickets surged in a bout of song, suddenly, that seemed to overwhelm the two Marshals. They sat in near-reverential silence, just listening. There was some scattered applause from Tim’s neighbors after the sound had settled. It made Raylan smirk, because among the pleasant families and literal _house of cheerleaders_ , suddenly Tim didn’t fit into this quiet little neighborhood at all.

He looked at Tim who was hunched over, his face drawn into a hard mask. He thinking the exact same thing. 

“Water still works,” Tim said. Beside him, Tom Hanks curled around Tim’s collection of empty beer bottles, jostling them. “If you got anything in the fridge, you’d best eat it now.”

“Raymond already got to my turkey club,” Raylan said, inching toward the conversation he figured they ought to have sooner rather than later. 

Tim disagreed. “Oh, well. He ain’t invited back, then.” 

Raylan swallowed down a touch more beer, wishing for something stronger. “Is that it? You ain’t gonna tell me not to mention this at work?”

Tim’s eyes went comically wide then incredibly narrow. “Why would you have reason to mention this at work?” Mockingly, he posed a possible scenario: _“The fugitive left a cock at the scene of the crime. TIM loves cock!”_

Raylan quirked an amused little smile. “Well if that was the case, I’d still ask your opinion.” 

Tim finished his beer and wormed a third cigarette out of its partially-crushed box. He lit it and savored the first taste. “Don’t, then,” he said, making a delicate ‘o’ with his lips and blowing smoke. “Say anything. If it needs to be a _formal request._ ”

"I won't, then."

"Fine. Stupendous." 

"Is it?" Raylan asked, studying Tim despite the low light. "Fine? You look mad about it, is all."

"I ain't,” Tim insisted, taking another lengthy drag. “I genuinely love cock." 

If it wasn’t for the fact that Tim refused to look Raylan in the eye, Raylan might have thought the whole thing to be an elaborate joke. 

Raylan also thought about taking his leave, letting Tim indulge in his silence and distrust if that’s what he wanted. But a sweltering, pitch-black house was nothing to look forward to; Raylan had experienced enough of that in Harlan. He gestured loosely with his beer bottle at the pretty little scene below them: a silent, natural night. Tim’s sloping yard lit only by moon- and star-light, and the occasional lightning bug. Tim looked upon it all, too, and understood why Raylan wasn't going to let himself be told off and sent away. 

The tall, narrow trees huddled together in the wooded space looked like shadows within shadows, but Tim couldn't bring himself to appreciate them. He studied the space, watchful of movement.

Raylan wet his lips and figured, if not now, when? “Can’t help but think if you were aiming to keep quiet, you wouldn’t let me take up residence in the same neighborhood as you, let alone your house.” 

Tim squinted out over his yard and into the pitch-black city, as if he could spot something miles away. “I thought you’d be into it,” he leered, then sobered. “You wanna leave, leave. Didn’t think you’d give two shits. My mistake.”

While keeping his cigarette pinned between two long fingers, Tim managed to retrieve and uncap another beer. He brought it to his lips, sick of tasting the air and his own dry mouth. It was his sixth. 

“Naw, man,” Raylan said. He watched his fellow Marshal intently. “I don’t give a shit.” 

Tim took a longer drink after that. It was celebratory, in its a way. 

Raylan swept a hand over his brow and drew the sweat beading there into his hairline. There did not appear to be anything lacking in his response; Tim accepted it well enough, but Raylan found himself worrying he’d offered nothing _positive,_ even if the neutral response had already satisfied his audience. “They don’t get the power running soon, though, I’m out. Driving north ‘til I hit a breeze.” 

Tim nodded his tacit acknowledgement of Raylan’s efforts. He wanted--and expected--silence. 

What he’d yet to learn about Raylan was, Raylan didn’t care.

“Why’d you leave the military?”

“Long commute,” Tim answered promptly, _easily,_ and with a kind of assurance that was only born of practice. It figured that Tim got the question a lot--particularly in making the leap from Army Ranger to Deputy U.S. Marshal. Everybody was looking for a story or a confession. 

Ignoring him, Raylan continued, “In light of,” he frowned, _“this.”_

“What’s _this_ supposed to mean,” Tim hummed, knowing exactly what Raylan meant but not willing to spare him the effort of asking. 

Raylan was always a little quicker than Tim liked to think, so he shot back in equal parts charming and slick, “It means, there’s no sense lying.” 

Tim drew his forearm across his brow, wiping away sweat and further mussing his damp curls.

“Why,” he began slowly, “Would I tell you?” 

“You know all my shit,” Raylan said with a shrug. That, at least, seemed obvious.

“Because you carry it with you into work every morning,” Tim grumbled. “Hell, you’d smear it on the walls if’n we didn’t already drop everything to see to it.”

“When have you ever dropped--”

“I dropped Doyle Bennett,” Tim said, making a pistol with his thumb, middle, and index fingers, his cigarette still pinched between the latter two--a literal smoking gun. “On my day off, too.” 

“Well I can’t say I’m too sorry about that one,” Raylan admitted with a wry smile. He took another grateful swig of beer and knew he was onto something. “Come on, man. I’ve been stayin’ here almost a month now, and who else has darkened your door, ‘sides the cable guy… or that fella you’re seeing.”

“What makes you think I’m not fuckin’ the cable guy, too?” The joke was weakly offered and little more than Tim’s last word of protest.

“Because you’re still payin’ for HBO,” Raylan said, triumphant.

“This is an adult story with adult themes.” Tim allowed, before a scowl crossed his face and he wanted nothing more than to _not_ grant Raylan this, a breath on honesty in their strange work-turned-household relationship. But it was a little late for excuses, and he was too drunk to come up with even a bad one. 

Tim prefaced, “It was an honourable discharge,” then smirked a little, adding, “Else they wouldn’t have let me keep the medals.”

Raylan smiled and tipped his beer, motioning for Tim to continue. 

But Tim didn’t. Not for a long, long time. 

The wet, oppressive heat was nearly enough to drive Raylan indoors for an ice-cold shower, but the promise--however weak--of Tim’s answer kept him glued to the plastic patio chair. When Tim finally spoke, it was as though he’d started in the middle or rather--that he’d silently told the entire tale, but was only now raising his voice for Raylan to hear. 

“Someone--said something. Drunkenly, jokingly, I don’t know. First he implicated a friend of mine, then tried to change his story, say it was someone else. A kind of, _no, I meant that other faggot_ situation.” Tim’s wry smile wasn’t directed at Raylan, but more for himself. Tim scratched his nose on the knuckles of his hand holding his cigarette; a dangerous move for an amatuer or someone with stubby fingers--of which, Tim was neither. He continued, “My buddy was… _concerned_ about it putting a hold on his promotion. At the very least.” The crickets started up again and Tim paused to listen. “It was political shit. He was held back on two missions, some meetings,” Tim shook his head--again, for himself. “I told our CO I was gay, and that I’d been talking to my buddy about it. And that’s how his name got involved.” 

Tim didn’t go into detail about the incident; he didn’t tell Raylan, for instance, that his buddy had stood right by him while he said it, and when he was dismissed left the room without so much as shaking Tim’s hand or clapping him on the shoulder. Tim didn’t say, either, that he never quite trusted his buddy after that. 

Feeling there wasn’t much else to say, Tim sucked on his cigarette and then finished: “Sometimes they overlook it, sometimes they don’t. I was advised to leave before it got any worse than gossip.” 

Raylan was decidedly underwhelmed. “That’s it? You just left?” 

“Yeah, I just up and waltzed out of Afghanistan.” Tim’s hand ghosted up to his middle and hovered for a moment just above his right hip. “A chunk of rusted-out pipe slicing through my side didn’t hurt my departure plans, neither, but the decision was already made.” Raylan thought Tim might lift his shirt and let him see the scar, but Tim’s hand traveled instead to his throat where he scratched the length of his neck with his long fingers. “I was protecting someone. Hell of a way to do it.” 

Then, as if Tim was still arguing the matter with himself after three years time, he muttered, “He was career military.” 

Raylan shook his head as if to ask, _So?_

“ _So_ I hadn’t given a thought to enlisting until five minutes before I did it,” Tim said, frustrated that Raylan didn’t somehow just understand his language. “He’d wanted to be a colonel since he could pronounce the word.” 

Some kids in the neighborhood set off a firework. It screamed as it took flight and exploded brilliantly in a cascade of red and yellow light. Raylan watched it, saw the colors branch out and fade into the dark sky, but Tim didn’t. Tim had closed his eyes and was resting his forehead against the railing of his deck. Another firework went off and Tim sort of smiled. 

“Besides,” Tim started, then stopped. His next words weren’t something he wasn’t fond of in himself, but he admitted it like some due punishment. “Most of my friends were home or dead. I didn’t know or care about the new recruits.” He raised his beer. _“Hooah.”_

Raylan looked away from Tim and towards the city, out to some distant place where he figured the courthouse stood. There were a lot of reasons a person could quit something they were trained to do, something they _could do_ better than most. Raylan had a reason or two in his back pocket for getting out of Harlan and those damn coal mines. But Raylan wasn’t so sure if he believed Tim had it in him to be self-serving, no matter the cause. And part of that was youth--Tim didn’t know when to take himself out of a situation for his own protection. Sure, Raylan had learned that lesson at nineteen, but there had been a lot else going for him: the social and _literal_ toxicity of Harlan County, his hatred of Arlo, his friendship with Boyd Crowder. There’d been a laundry list of things prompting his departure, and enough to draw him out, too: a life of his own, a sense of justice, and college girls. 

At nineteen, there was only possibility. 

At twenty-seven? 

Raylan had been a Marshal for a few years by then, eager in his job and good at it. It wasn’t until recently that he’d genuinely thought about making a change. Even then, that decision was slotted along party lines for Raylan: it was the promise he’d made to Winona and his affection for her which nearly took him away from the Marshal Service. 

And there were other reasons. 

Sometimes, a man just got tired. 

Even so, Raylan figured there was a lot more to the story than Tim was willing to share--even now, or maybe ever. He got the feeling the _new recruits_ line was Tim’s way of saying he had no one to back his play. 

Raylan’s mind might have wandered slow and easy as he tried to parse Tim’s answer for an actual truth, but he’d been quick to issue a snappy response, nonetheless. “Watch it, they’ll snap you up as a hire at Glynco with that kind of attitude.”

Tim glanced at Raylan, certain there was something else going on in his head. Raylan, meeting his glance, gave a tacit nod of confirmation. Tim examined the cigarette between his long fingers, and then, very deliberately, he said: “Aw, did someone not get hugged enough during firearms training?” 

Raylan opened his mouth, poised to return fire, when the soft whirr of returning energy buzzed through the house. The neighborhood dotted into sight again as rooms and porch lights lit up. Inside, the air conditioning hummed. 

Although Raylan craned his neck to see inside Tim’s house--where the microwave and stove blinked stupidly and the bathroom light shone out from under the door--neither man moved. Even Tom Hanks, curled against Tim’s side, kept still. 

Raylan caught Tim glancing sidelong at him, as if still expecting an answer about his firearms training at Glynco. 

“You know that ain’t gonna happen here.” Raylan said it while he had Tim’s attention. He figured Tim’s sudden lapse into chain smoking wasn’t an accident; although his stare was flat and his tone measured, Raylan was convinced Tim was as rattled as he’d ever been. Raylan polished off the rest of his beer, as if the gesture might put him on similar footing with Tim, who’d had quite a few more. “Art wouldn’t fire you for that.” 

Tim studied Raylan, taking care to rightly determine whether or not he was making a threat. After all, Tim had once been told _You did the right thing, soldier,_ but was shown the door. “It ain’t Art’s call.” 

“He’d fight for you. I would, too.” 

The twist to Tim’s lips seemed to anticipate a snarky comeback, but Tim offered none. He drew in his legs and gathered the empty bottles piled to his left. 

Empathy wasn’t one of Raylan’s strong suits--sure, he could relate to people well enough, considering his profession. Most of those people were criminals, and if he couldn’t simply outsmart them, Raylan always had better luck charming a fugitive than allowing himself to play charmed or feed into some asshole’s twisted vision of himself. 

As for putting himself in Tim’s place, Raylan got as far as relating the end of Tim’s military career with all the profound fuck-ups he got away with as a Deputy Marshal. It made Raylan feel like shit in a needless way--which he thought was guilt, but again, Raylan was less familiar with these feelings, and one beer on a hot night wouldn’t help him differentiate them better.

“Well I’m real glad we had this talk,” Raylan said, ever the shit-stirrer. Tim rolled his eyes. 

“It’ll be all show tunes and orgies from this moment on.” 

Raylan goaded him further, lifting his sweat-slick body out of the patio chair and following Tim off the porch and into the rapidly cooling house. “You gonna have more boys over?” 

Tim was depositing his empty bottles into the bin under the sink. When he next stood to his full height, he sort of rolled his shoulders and matched Raylan with a confrontation-ready stare. “If I do, I’ll be sure to fuck ‘em louder.” 

Now that Tim wasn’t being secretive about it, Raylan decided, _Tim was really not being secretive about it._ But there was no relief in his voice--just his usual apathetic self twisted with a little more disdain for his present company. Raylan had never doubted that his flat tone was partly learned behavior; no kid just naturally grew up speaking the way Tim did. That was the Army, taking orders, and giving nothing else. 

It was doing the work and doing it well, but failing on principle. 

“I’ma shower first,” Tim drawled, then invested in a last bit of put-upon showboating: “Unless of course you find that our newfound friendship merits heartfelt talks _and_ a good loofah-ing.”

“You’d loofah me, Tim?”

“Oh, sure,” Tim threw back over his shoulder. “After you suck my dick.” 

Raylan chuckled. “No need to be coy about it.” 

\- 

The next few days were quiet, and it had nothing to do with Tim’s admission. 

Raylan, Rachel, and Tim were part of a team sent to collect a fugitive they believed to be shacking up with his ex-wife. He was termed _armed and dangerous,_ so the Marshals arrived in a similar fashion. 

It wasn’t necessary.

The woman answered the door without a word and somehow managed to convey to the Marshals that silence was of the utmost importance. She cupped her hands over her nose and mouth to stifle her own gasping sobs. Her eyes shined with tears and a kind of terror for something greater than her own life, and Raylan recognized it at once. 

Dropping his voice, he asked: _“Where is your child.”_

Rachel and Tim dispersed into the house, hugging the walls and navigating corners like each promised a hundred-foot drop. From behind a closed door to a small nursery, the woman’s infant child let out an angry, hungry wail. A man’s voice soon followed. 

“Goddamnit, Helen.”

Raylan stepped to join the ranks of his fellow Marshals, positioned before the door. The woman’s hands slipped from his face to her throat. She willed herself to beg the man she’d last seen in court, watching her give a damning piece of testimony, “Arnie, _please._ ”

“Sir,” Rachel said, her voice as steady as stone. “Exit the room with your arms raised, or we will shoot.”

“I’m with my daughter,” Arnie said. The child continued to cry.

 _“We will shoot,”_ Tim reiterated. 

When Arnie did exit the nursery, he wasn’t alone. Helen screamed and started to rush him, but Rachel caught her arm and held her back. Bare head resting on his shoulder, plump body curled to Arnie’s chest was Helen’s child, snug in a pink-and-white-striped onesie and full, wet diaper. 

“No need to shoot,” Arnie slurred. In his other hand, he held a pistol to his temple.

“Put the child down,” Rachel ordered. Arnie hugged her tighter. She’d stopped crying and in his addled mind, he took that as some kind of good omen.

Tim would berate himself for his choice of positioning, later. He’d imagined picking Arnie off from the shoulder, so he’d angled himself to the right of the door. Unfortunately, that put the infant in the way of his headshot. 

Rachel wouldn’t take the shot; the woman was clinging to her and might fuck up her form. 

Tim glanced at Raylan and--well.

He just wasn’t sure.

Mindful of Arnie’s shaking limbs and slurred speech, Tim feared the bullet might pass through his skull and clip the child--at best. If his hand shook or he got the shot wrong…

“Won’t kill yourself doing that,” Tim said. “Might just plow through your sinus cavities. You can go back to prison with half a face.” 

All this time, Arnie had been staring at Helen. Now, he turned to face Tim. 

“You oughta swallow it,” Tim told him. 

Arnie put the barrel of the gun in his mouth and complied.

He jerked backwards and the crown of his head was gone, exploded into a familiar pattern that somehow resembled a bullet hole, but different. Entirely different in its medium. Bullet holes were pockmarks in walls and Humvees. This was flesh, savaged and splayed open, almost in a flower shape. 

Raylan swore.

Tim holstered his weapon and stepped over to the man. The bottoms of his boots squelched as they met the expanding pool of Arnie Turner’s warm, wet blood. Tim dropped a knee and crouched over the body. He threw off Arnie’s arm and juggled the shrieking infant into his own. 

She’d been carried in the fall and thankfully not simply dropped. Her head was painted with her father’s blood, but her resurrected screams were due more to the shock of the blast and the unexpected fall, rather than any wound sustained on her tiny person. Tim swept off the blood with his hand, first, because there was so much. 

On the ground, blood poured from Arnie’s nose. Endlessly, which seemed strange that the heart would continue to pump to lost facilities, but Tim thought the idea was promising. 

Rachel forced the screaming mother to turn her back--and Rachel did, too. 

Tim passed the child to Raylan, who made a secondary effort of soaking up Arnie’s blood with his shirt sleeve, then practically relayed her to the mother. In a matter of seconds, the rest of the canvassing team had heard the shot and suddenly the apartment was filled to capacity. 

That was on a Tuesday. 

For the rest of the work week, the three Marshals avoided one another. Rachel, because it had been a shitty bust and _fuck that, she worked too hard to face a shitty bust._ Raylan was haunted by the realization that he hadn’t acted quickly enough--not to stop the shooting, or preempt it, but to collect the child. Tim was quiet, knowing he’d played a part in another suicide. 

There was no official discussion, however, about Tim’s means of controlling the shot no one felt confident taking themselves. 

Unofficially, Raylan voiced his opinion in the courthouse elevator: _”What kind of Jedi Knight fuckery was that?”_

Rachel slapped him. 

At the office, Rachel delved back into her work while Raylan and Tim’s cases proceeded to suffer. Art gave them an ultimatum: Voluntarily take time off or take time off and then relearn the U.S. Marshal hiring process.

Raylan stood from his desk, donned his hat, and answered for all of them: “Give us the weekend.”

\- 

The entire week had been hectic, but the weekend slowed to a snail’s pace. 

Friday evening, they met at Tim’s for pizza, poker, and copious amounts of alcohol. It hadn’t been Tim’s first choice for a venue, but Rachel refused her place on the grounds of not wanting to drive anyone home, and neither Rachel nor Raylan thought a public space was appropriate. Tim worried where the conversation might lead in private.

There was no worthwhile baseball game to show on mute, so in lieu of the easy distraction of the television screen, Tim had music his laptop playing just low enough to soften any silent lulls in the evening. 

Upon her arrival, Rachel complimented Tom Hanks, saying that he looked a little fuller and perkier since last she’d seen him. Tim responded lowly but genuinely about having changed the cat’s diet. They fell into an uneasy silence until, around the fourth hand, Rachel said, “That was _fucked up._ ”

“Which part?” Raylan asked needlessly, throwing down his bad hand. “Where that motherfucker used his infant child like a shield, or,” he stopped himself and corrected, “Nope, that shit’s in a category of its own. Whatever the fuck Tim did doesn’t even come close.” 

Tim held up his index finger and thumb, gesturing a short distance. “Comes about five inches.”

“Fuck you,” Raylan said at once. He wouldn’t stand for Tim making light of how close the child came to the fatal shot. Tim likely thought he was joking about what he’d done, but it didn’t sound that way to Raylan’s or Rachel’s ears. 

“I checked in on Helen Turner,” Rachel said, sensing the coming tension and choosing to temper it. “Her child’s going to be fine. Maybe some hearing damage in her left ear, but she’ll be tested again to be certain.” 

With that particular detail on the table, the trio added bourbon into the mix. 

Raylan knew Tim had been drinking prior to Rachel’s arrival. It was with the extra shot of bourbon that Tim lost his senses, found his courage, or compromised on the two. He wet his lips and started talking.

“I didn’t think he’d be talked down,” Tim said in his defense--though, admittedly, none had come to question it. By omission, however, the matter seemed to have taken root among the three--Tim in knowing he’d overstepped himself; Raylan thinking it was something of an ingenious ploy; and Rachel, who realized after the fact that, no, she hadn’t taken issue with what Tim had done. 

Raylan thought about Tim’s Army buddy O’Brien, and when Tim next parted his lips to speak, Raylan thought he’d be hearing about him again. 

“My father shot himself in the head.”

Raylan near about gave himself whiplash, turning to confirm Tim’s words with the shameful look on the younger Marshal’s face. _Two for two,_ Raylan thought.

“Your father died,” Rachel said, then stopped, knowing she’d meant to say more, to come up with whatever had been in her head, whatever insinuation Tim had made or misconception he’d failed to correct. She thought, _lung cancer, heart disease, stroke,_ and then realized Tim had only ever spoken in such broad terms that anything might have fit.

“That was the payout, yes,” Tim said, knowing better than to smile. 

If Raylan thought Rachel and her swollen Tennessee accent would drop to a whisper, he’d be wrong. Rachel asked in tones confident of an answer, “Why’d he do that?” 

“Meth,” Tim intoned gravely, “Not even once.”

“Tim,” Rachel said sharply, rightly seeing through the comment as another awful joke.

“Why do shitty people do anything?” Tim returned, then went a roundabout way of returning to his point: “I’m glad he’s dead. Wish he’d done it sooner. That kid is lucky.”

Rachel laid her poker hand flat on the table, colors down, and pushed the sleeves of her shirt to her elbows like she was readying for a brawl. “You can’t possibly think that.”

Tim, now, was the only one holding his cards, but had long lost all for that they’d actually pick up the game. “No, you’re right, he’d have been an ideal father. Tell her, Raylan.”

And Raylan had to admit, the hallmarks were all there: drunkenness, violence, total disregard for the well-being of others. 

But Raylan’s mind didn’t settle on Arlo right away, like Tim obviously expected it to. It wandered.

Raylan slowly shook his head, unable to agree with Tim. 

“Liar,” Tim said, reaching again for his glass of bourbon instead of his beer.

Maybe Raylan imagined it, but he thought Tim sounded a little hurt. 

“Why,” Raylan started, but found himself incapable of speaking--or even _gesturing_ \--to his query. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and finished lamely, “With the baby.”

That seemed to be the question on Rachel’s mind, too. She had no explanation for what they’d seen.

“I saw a guy blow himself up,” Tim offered, reaching across the table for a slice of pizza. “You’d think there’d be nothin’ left--a cloud of pink and then nothin’--but there was a lot. Entire limbs. His shoes. Intestines and shit get covered up pretty quick by dust, but,” Tim chewed and said with a glob of cheese in his cheek, “Sometimes the head comes right off.” 

Rachel schooled her expression from one of _shut the fuck up, Tim, I don’t want to hear this_ to merely, _I don’t want to hear this._ Raylan was more the former, but followed Rachel’s lead and allowed Tim his curious tangent. 

“Anyway. This one guy was holding a goat on a long leash--tether,” Tim waved a hand, “Thing. We thought maybe he’d put a bomb in the goat but didn’t want to set it off and kill the guy, necessarily,” Tim made a doubtful face, “And after he did the deed, we saw the goat again. He was fine, somehow. Knocking around the street, confused.” Tim shrugged a shoulder and offered diplomatically, “Knowing what he was gonna do, maybe Arnie Turner didn’t want to be alone, doing it.” 

Raylan favored Tim with a flat look. “You’re excusing it, then.”

“There’s no excusing it,” Tim said, coolly despite Raylan’s rising temper. “But it wasn’t about the baby. It was just some coward, too afraid to go alone.” 

Rachel drank to that-- _Arnie Turner was a coward, at the very least_ \--but Raylan remained still. 

Finally, Raylan pushed away from the table. He didn’t get any further. Two pairs of eyes studied him.

“I’m gonna take off,” he said slowly, still not having moved.

“You oughta bring a change of clothes,” Rachel said, taking her’s and Raylan’s cards and joining them with Tim’s and the rest of the deck. She’d rightly guessed Raylan’s spur-of-the-moment travel plans. “You don’t wanna bring laundry for Winona to do.”

Raylan finally rose from his seat to gather a few things from his bedroom. It wasn’t long before he had a small bundle of things under his arm and had reached the front door. 

“Drive safe,” Rachel added. She glanced at Tim, a little surprised. 

A little impressed, even. 

“Well that’s him sorted,” Tim said, decidedly less impressed. “He is literally about to drive half the night to wake up his ex-wife and rub her belly.” 

“Maybe that’s just what he needs,” Rachel reasoned. Obligation was as good a motivator as she knew, but maybe it was something new for Raylan. Vengeance and superiority were more his speed.

“What do you need?”

Rachel smiled warmly and nursed her beer. “You know what? I’m good. I’ve made my peace with this.”

“Well damn, that was easy.”

“Your story helped.”

“I made that up,” Tim said, wrinkling his nose.

Rachel smiled again, knowing better.

“We shot the goat,” Tim admitted. 

A few more drinks found Tim and Rachel on the couch, their card game forgotten. 

Rachel didn’t like to express doubts about herself in front of Raylan; Tim guessed it had more to do with the fact that Raylan Givens was on the fast track for a promotion rather than some fault in his character. He wouldn’t judge her, certainly, but Rachel didn’t give herself to space to trust in her heart what she already knew. 

“I just wish we’d acted faster.” 

“No one was gonna get that shot,” Tim told her, though the sentiment was something he’d been trying to accept for some time, now. He remembered Arnie’s drunken sway, the rhythm to it that Tim found familiar. 

“I know that,” Rachel said. “That’s not what I meant. I mean… goddamnit, in every capacity. Knowing Turner was on the run. Hearing from Wit-Sec that Helen’s move was _under review._ She was a sitting duck for two days, Tim.” 

Rachel smoothed a hand over her brow and hair. She’d always take the job to heart, even if she performed better never letting it touch her. 

She waved a hand around Tim’s living room, but lingering towards Raylan’s bedroom door. “How’s all this been?”

“Oh, are you asking my opinion? I thought you’d just tell me how I feel about it.” 

“You like the company,” Rachel shot back. “Am I so far off?” 

With a seriousness that bordered on the absurd, Tim intoned, “He is a fucking ray of sunshine into my life.”

Rachel smirked triumphantly. “What’s great is, I know you mean that.”

“He went through my stuff,” Tim said, thinking back to Raylan’s first day in his home. 

“Did he find anything interesting?”

Tim ventured to the fridge in search of another beer. He presented one for Rachel, who declined. “You’re free to have a look-see, yourself.”

“I like to think I know you pretty well,” Rachel said, idly inspecting her fingernails. Tim returned to the couch and uncapped his beer.

“Do you,” he teased, “Like that?”

She stared at him, quiet, but found her attention drawn to the music still softly playing from Tim’s laptop. Tim heard it too, and although he hussled to stop the song, Rachel made out the twinkling sounds as part of the Howard Shore _Lord of the Rings_ score. 

“Changed my mind,” Rachel said, taking Tim’s beer as her own. He frowned at her, but returned to the couch without a drink in his hand. Tom Hanks sauntered into the room, then, and upon finding his owner’s hands free, settled partly into Tim’s lap, anticipating some attention. 

Tim complied, stroking the mangled cat absently. 

“I don’t feel good about telling him how to kill himself,” Tim murmured, glancing at Rachel. “If that needs to be said.”

“Not for my benefit, it doesn’t.” Her’s was a sharp comeback, but Rachel smoothed out the edges some with a patient smile. She stared at Tim for a time after that, thoughtful but cautious.

“Do you still have Mario Cart?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Tim said, relieved.

Their evening devolved into a whirlwind of cold pizza, warm beer, and trash talk. It was one of the better weekends in Tim’s recent memory. 

\- 

At her mother’s place in Tennessee, Winona couldn’t very well send Raylan away when he showed up in the middle of the night, road-weary and mumbling about his wallet, which he’d left open and on Tim’s kitchen table, anticipatory of some major poker losses to Rachel. 

Winona looked ready to burst and Raylan had some wonderful, horrible feeling that maybe he’d be around for the birth, afterall. Round as she was, with her belly button protruding into her slinky nightgown, Raylan was of half a mind to offer Winona a ride to the hospital, right then and there.

But Winona had made it this far without him. She carried herself well, despite the heavy load. Her hair was pulled into a perpetually messy bun that Raylan, during his visit, found his hand drawn to. He’d snake an arm around her shoulders and release the loosely tied style, letting her naturally wavy curls tumble over her shoulders. She’d huff and swat his hand away, then rake the mass of hair together and set it again in anticipation for another fall. 

Raylan couldn’t count the number of times he’d done it, or why he felt the sudden compulsion. 

Winona might argue that messing up her life was hardly a _sudden_ occurrence.

Nonetheless, she allowed him the time to pretend it was.

Late Sunday night, Raylan found a missed call from Tim.

“Just checking in. I’m sure you can swindle Art for some days off, but you ought to get your story straight with the rest of us, first. Like, about how much self-reflection you’re doing an hour. A rough estimate will do.” Tim paused, thinking. “Okay,” he added, then hung up. 

It made Raylan laugh and he shared the message with Winona. 

“He’s a weird little guy,” Winona agreed, peeling off a shred of meat from some cold barbecued ribs she seemed to constantly have on hand in her fridge. It became her go-to pregnancy food, which again made Raylan regret not being around for its duration. 

She held out the rib for Raylan to take a bite, but finished the thing herself. She was chewing on a spot of sauce on the skin of her thumb when she offered quietly, “It’s not a bad idea, though. Taking a few more days. Don’t you think?” 

They shared another half-dozen ribs before Raylan called Tim back. 

“Calling when you could have texted,” Tim said by way of answering. His voice was heavy with sleep and Raylan could very nearly not make out the words he was using. “I feel like a suburban mom. Did you wet your pants? Need me to pick you up from your slumber party?”

“Hey,” Raylan interrupted, then offered an explanation for his weekend away: “Things are better with Winona.”

“Well, it’s one in the morning,” Tim said. “A few activities come to mind that might explain you sayin’ that.”

“We were eating cold barbecue out of her mother’s icebox.”

“Aaand that ain’t one,” Tim yawned. “Unless that’s a euphemism?” 

Raylan ignored him. “I’ll be back Tuesday evening.”

“Late Wednesday morning,” Tim corrected. “Got it. I’ll pass that along to Art.” 

Raylan leaned against the doorframe to Winona’s room. She was in the half-bath, maneuvering around her belly to ready for bed. Raylan could hear her muttering senseless threats at the mass under her nightgown. _Go to sleep or so help me, Janette, you’ll be a little Jiffy-Pop._

“Oh my God!” Winona shrieked, and Raylan very nearly bounded into action and kicked down the bathroom door. Her follow-up question, however, stayed Raylan’s heroics. “Raylan, was I not wearin’ pants earlier?!”

“What? No,” he’d taken her for lunch at some little vegan place she liked to pretend she liked, but that was around noon. She’d shucked her pants the moment she stepped into the house and Raylan wasn’t certain if he’d seen them again all day. It was just the top and the occasional flash of black panties. “Wouldn’t you… know that?”

“I can’t see if I’m not wearing them, Raylan! Jesus Christ, _I answered the door like this._ ”

Tim was laughing hysterically over the phone, next Raylan stepped back into the hallway and pressed the device to his ear. 

“Would you believe it? Childbirth is supposed to be, I don’t know, at least twice as bad as this.”

Tim’s wheezy laughs--he’d been smoking recently, Raylan could tell--eventually gave out into a few gasping breaths and finally, a sigh. “Ohhh, man. For Art to take you away from all that would be criminal.”

Raylan shook his head, willing himself not to be amused. “I do appreciate the support, Tim. Hope you and Rachel didn’t suffer none without my company.” 

“Rachel had to console me as I mourned your absence,” Tim assured, having returned to his dull monotone, “But somehow we weathered that storm.” Mindful of the fact that Raylan’s extended stay was starting now, Tim finished, “Alright. Go back to eating out of your ex-wife’s mother’s icebox.”

Hearing the phrase from Tim, Raylan grimaced. “Fuck, Tim. You’ve ruined it.” 

“Well, no, Raylan,” Tim reasoned in a sickly sweet tone, “If it’s in the icebox, it’ll keep.” 

“You’re a sick, sick man.” 

Tim gave a soft snort of derision. “Finally, someone said it.”

It was difficult to give Tim’s last, offhand remark any thought when Winona, in a silky top and ratty plaid pajama bottoms, emerged from the bathroom. A toothbrush protruded from her mouth and a glob of minty bubbles was threatening to dribble down her chin. The bun was back, perched like a fat little bird on the top of her head. 

“Don’t stare,” she chastised as best she could with a mouth full of toothpaste but breath that still smelled of smoky-sweet pork ribs. “I look like shit.”

She was beautiful, and Raylan knew two days would never be enough.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art visits, T.H. helps make a plot point, and Raylan and Tim become still more entangled in one another's lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are awesome! Thanks so much for reading. Remember when this was going to be all smiles and rainbows? 
> 
> RAINBOWS. NO. MORE. In case that wasn't already clear.

Even after pulling late hours at the office Tuesday night, Tim was nonetheless surprised that Raylan had returned to Lexington when he’d planned. Still, Tim didn’t doubt for a second that Raylan would squander his supposed mid-morning Wednesday arrival. 

Raylan was presently sat on the couch with a pen dancing between his fingers, only rarely meeting the legal pad resting on his knee. Come morning, he would be balancing a bowl of ice cream there, watching baseball highlights until noon.

Tim unclipped his badge and his gun from his belt, resting them both on the empty kitchen table.

“Honey, you redecorated,” Tim said, eyeing the buttery-brown leather recliner that now stood in his living room, turned so that light creeping through from the wall of sliding glass doors might favor it. 

“Hmm? Oh, it’s Winona’s. Mine. Ours, I guess.” Raylan frowned. “I can move it,” he started to say, but Tim waved a hand. He ventured into the kitchen and pulled a small apple and one individually wrapped serving of string cheese from the fridge, then rinsed the apple and took a hungry bite. 

“I didn’t know that about your father,” Raylan said. He was still studiously focused on his scribbled notes, but the comment was no less pointed. 

Tim didn’t miss a beat.

“That he offed himself?” He took another bite. A dribble of juice chanced an escape from the corner of his mouth, but Tim quickly caught it with the back of his hand. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“Arlo got himself killed,” Raylan said and then, meeting Tim’s eyes across the room, added: “I know it ain’t the same.” 

“It ain’t the Bad Dad Olympics, neither." Tim wished this conversation had ended Friday night like it was meant to, but he couldn't fault Raylan for being troubled over his own father, who he'd had to bus back to Harlan and plant in his front yard like some bad seed. Every interaction Raylan had had with Arlo seemed like the first dark turn of a Stephen King novel, always leading to something worse. Tim chewed over a set of quasi-amends and offered gamely, "But yours had more time to be an asshole, so I guess there’s that.” 

Tim had finished the apple in under ten bites. He tossed the shrunken core into the bin and moved into the living room. He stepped over Tom Hanks, who was sleeping soundly on his slide with his small head pillowed on his curled left arm. He’d positioned himself so that only his arms and head were on Tim’s heavy red carpet; his belly was kept cool on the hardwood floor.

"Look at this fuckin' genius," Tim murmured over his cat. It was of a tone that Raylan had since learned not to respond to; it was just among the many things Tim said aloud, reminding himself he wasn't alone.

“Tell me, Tim,” Raylan asked, putting his pen to paper, “Why did your daddy hate you?” 

Tim pretended to give the bizarre question a little thought. He had to curb the smile that threatened to disrupt his delivery of a response as flat and dry as a mummy’s tits: “You know, he wasn’t very articulate when he was beating on me.”

“They never are,” Raylan said dully. He wasn’t in such a joking mood as Tim.

Curious, Tim glanced over at Raylan’s legal pad. “Are you--writing this down?”

Raylan continued to scribble while he explained: “Winona… wants to try couples therapy and some individual sessions. Naturally, this overpaid, shit-stirring fuck wants to talk about my daddy.”

“Low-hanging fruit,” Tim dismissed, dropping into the newest addition to his living room and finding it satisfactory. The seat was mounted and able to swivel, so if Tim turned and stretched out his leg, he’d be able to touch Tom Hanks with his toe. He did this before turning to Raylan and offering his advice: “You should work through your cowboy fetish.”

“Shit,” Raylan mumbled, vigorously scratching something out. “You’ve done therapy before, right? Clearly didn’t do you any good, but,” Raylan gestured to Tim, head to toe, “You got cleared to handle firearms, which is something.”

Tim laughed. “This is America, man. I could get the nuclear codes.” 

“I’ll just take that as a glowing endorsement of our country’s many riches. C'mon, gimmie something foolproof.”

Tim unwrapped his string cheese from its plastic casing and peeled off a chunk. “I ain’t doing your therapy homework,” he said through a mouthful of processed cheese. “Make up your own shit.”

“I’m _trying_ but it sounds like the bullshit it is. Here,” Raylan passed Tim the pad of paper he was scribbling on. “I wrote that I _used to think_ Arlo hated that I disrespected him, wasn’t scared enough of him. But I now I realize it was because he knew I just didn’t love him.”

Tim’s eyes went from Raylan, to the pages, to Raylan again. “The fuck.”

Raylan gave him a smart look. “I figure it shows growth. Maybe I can knock it all out in one or two sessions.”

“It sounds depraved,” Tim told him shortly. He passed back the pages, feeling like he’d just become complicit in some petty crime. “Just sack up and cry. _Pretend to cry,_ ” Tim corrected, catching a withering look from Raylan. “And whenever your therapist starts in on something just nod your head.” Tim stripped off another length of cheese and dropped it into his mouth. “It’s easy.” 

Watching Raylan scribble a while longer, Tim asked, “Why’s it got to be about Arlo, anyway?”

Raylan grimaced. “Winona brought it up. She’s kind of fixated on the fact that he tried to kill me.” 

“Might as well be about Boyd Crowder,” Tim said, picking a thumbnail into his string cheese.

Raylan smiled at that. “That’d prove more prudent.” 

Raylan continued to struggle with his answers, and Tim watched. Tim finished his cheese and, although comfortable, left the recliner. 

Deciding to throw Raylan a gnawed-on, therapy-flavored bone, Tim tried, “You hated your daddy since he bought those fucking tombstones, saying you’d never leave and you were as good as dead, then plantin’ the evidence on your front fuckin’ lawn.” He gestured with two open hands as if to say triumphantly, _There._ “Introspection.” 

Raylan jotted it down. “I’ll throw it out there,” he said. “See what sticks.”

“That’s a good attitude to have about your mental health,” Tim drawled. “It’s spaghetti.”

Raylan pinched the bridge of his nose and was ready to start in on his explanation-- _I’m doing this at Winona’s behest, Tim, because you don’t tell the woman you impregnated ‘no’ when she wants anything short of your nuts in a vice_ \--when Tim waved a disinterested hand. 

“I have full respect for this,” Tim assured him in the precise tone that suggested otherwise, then wandered out of the room. 

Raylan got about five minutes of work in, expanding on Tim’s idea and trying to figure how he could make it last a therapist’s hour, before Tim returned.

He was quiet, the entire wealth of his posture and expression invested into the fact that _they were done speaking._ Although it was precisely the kind of attitude Raylan could have hoped for in the unlikely ( _ha!_ ) event of sharing a house with a co-worker, he had only recently grown used to such behavior. They were two ships passing, planets orbiting, neither an affront to the other’s presence. It was Tim’s habit, first--Raylan generally ran into things head-on--but both had taken up to wandering the house without acknowledging the other, never issuing so much as a platitude. 

This made Tim’s anxious air all the more interesting. He wasted time in the kitchen, checking cabinets and the pantry before settling on another helping of processed string cheese. Then, he hovered around his bookshelf and eventually selected a title, although it was never his intention to re-read _A Storm of Swords._ He browsed a few pages, caught Jaime’s comment about _The War for Cersei’s Cunt,_ then skipped a few hundred more and read the Hound saying of King Robert, “If he couldn’t fuck it, fight it, or drink it, it bored him.” (2) He closed the book and turned it over, pretending to read the back cover. His eyes were closed, however, as he finally summoned the courage to pussyfoot just a little _less_ around the point he wanted to make.

“Hey,” he said. A commendable start. “What I said, last week,” he peeked open one eye, then the other, rolled them at his own weakness, and finally bit the bullet: “You won’t tell anybody.”

It was less a question than a command--one which was given with as much authority as Tim thought he had to make it. He turned away from the bookshelf and rested against it. The corner of _How to Win a Cosmic War_ dug sharply into his shoulder blade as he stared at the back of Raylan’s head. 

“Hmm?” Raylan had to crane his neck to spot Tim. “Right. Uh, no,” he waved a hand and returned to his scribbling. “It’s your sordid business.” When Raylan next turned back around, he was wearing a grimace. “Wait, shit. I mean, it’s your own… valid… being.”

“What the fuck,” Tim said, looking at Raylan like the older Marshal had just shit his own pants, dug out the load, and presented it to Tim. 

“I’m cheerleading,” Raylan defended tiredly. “For your--aw, fuck it. That was spot-on encouragement of self-acceptance. _Spot-on._ Couldn’t have said that better if’n it came from an afterschool special.” 

Feeling his neck grow warm and red with embarrassment, Tim jammed the end of the cheese into his mouth and pushed off from the bookshelf, muttering darkly, “Shouldn’t have told you in the first place.”

Raylan gave a haggard sigh and snapped his head around again. It wasn’t often that Tim’s presence annoyed him, but muttering would get it done every time. Tim usually preferred to aggravate Raylan at a comfortable volume; making Raylan work to hear him talk shit was just uncouth. 

“Hell, Tim. I said I wouldn’t say anything, and I won’t.” He tore out a scrap of paper from the back of the pad. “You want to write up a contract, stick it to the fridge? Winona can notarize it.”

Tim frowned. “Does she know?”

“Jesus, if this is any reflection of how you flirt, don’t give it a second thought. Won’t be any evidence to hold against you.” 

Tim gnawed on his string cheese. “I do alright.” 

Along with the cheese, Tim was handling a pair of aviator sunglasses Raylan occasionally saw around the apartment--on the kitchen counter, on the bookshelf--but had never actually seen Tim wear. It had taken him a while to realize they _weren’t Tim’s._ It only came to him now, pondering over his yellow legal pad full of bullshit answers for his and Arlo’s shitty relationship, that the glasses once belonged to Colton Rhodes. 

At least, that was the first time Raylan had seen them--again, held awkwardly in Tim’s big hands while he stood in watchful silence over the other veteran’s lifeless body.

Because Rachel’s voice suddenly dropped into his ear and he figured he could put her concerns to rest, finally, Raylan decided to confront Tim. 

He didn’t do it right away; Tim had stooped to rub Tom Hanks’ plump belly and could be occupied for a time. Something skittered across the floor and the mangy cat leapt after it, showing more speed and agility Raylan had seen in during his entire stay at Tim’s place. Tim moved quickly, too, recovering the item--the sunglasses--and shielding them in his fist. For a short time, Tom Hanks continued to bat and bite at Tim’s hand before giving up and wandering off.

“I can’t quite figure when Colt got those to you,” Raylan said, eyeing Tim in a kind of sidelong way. Tim’s gaze momentarily dropped to his fist before he stashed the contents into his jeans pocket. “I imagine it was between emulating Michael Bay and pulling on you in that church.” 

“After,” Tim corrected, confirming instead that he’d stolen them. He stood up, not allowing himself to have this conversation at cat-level.

Raylan didn’t really care and wasn't really interested after the fact, but he could tell--somehow, _he knew_ \--that this was Tim, fucking up. Tim didn’t often make mistakes, and Raylan felt immediately inclined to revel in this, a rare occurrence. 

Likewise, Tim didn't really care to explain himself--which got Raylan interested real quick. 

"I got you Ellen May," Tim eventually felt compelled to share. Raylan had a mind to continue to wait him out, but self-corrected. It was foolish to wait for Tim to say anything he didn't want to say. 

Instead, Raylan raised his brows in an easy way, like he was talking Tim down from some absurd notion--specifically, that Raylan needed any help getting what he wanted. "I don't dispute that." 

Tim stood and stared at Raylan, looking very much on the verge of citing his only house rule-- _“You annoy the shit outta me at work. Don’t do that here.”_ \--when instead, he sighed. "Then what the fuck do you care, man?" 

Raylan didn’t, but it seemed too on the nose to say so. 

“Just curious,” he allowed with an stiff air of nonchalance, “‘Bout what you’ll pick off me when I shuffle off this mortal coil.”

Tim did appreciate the effort, but more than that he couldn’t fathom why he kept fucking up and putting his shit on display for Raylan. He could give himself a little leeway; Raylan was an investigator, of sorts. But Tim supposed it boiled down to this: in nearly three years of living alone, he had forgotten how to curb his behavior, how to step outside himself and watch for any tells. “Hat’s too obvious,” Tim said, already taking his leave. “Prob’ly just fillings.”

At any rate, Raylan never saw the sunglasses again.

Worse, Tim didn’t offer any further help with his therapy homework. 

\- 

With the assurance from Winona’s doctors that the baby would likely be late rather than early, Raylan was able to relax, some. He’d resolved to make the drive to Tennessee every weekend, but Winona asked for her space--and promised that she’d call.

So on his first Friday back from Winona’s, Raylan was understandably irritable. This presented in an undue attachment to his unresponsive smartphone, and a penchant for breathy sighs. 

Tim ignored it for as long as he could--and then so long that he was impressed with his own callousness. He exchanged his plan of bar hopping for a stack of DVDs, collected a couple of beers, and tossed Raylan a carton of ice cream. 

Meeting Raylan’s unimpressed scowl, Tim returned: “Option B is that I break your fuckin’ nose, and give you a reason to keep huffing air.”

All violence was restricted to the films they burned through over the course of the evening and early morning. 

That same morning, Tim received a piece of mail--a birthday present from a soldier he once served with, who was stationed now in Germany. It was an e-reader. On a scrap of paper in place of a card, the soldier wrote that he’d bought it on-base and hoped it didn’t require one of those _‘freaky, two in the pink one in the stink’_ German plugs.

It wasn’t the kind of thing Tim would have bought for himself, but he took to it immediately. 

Awaking much later than Tim, Raylan made the familiar half-circle walk from bedroom to bathroom to coffee pot. With profound bedhead and dark circles coloring his eyes, he looked about as good as one would expect after a night of zombie films, hard liquor, and a pint of Wow Now Brownie Cow. Over the lip of his coffee mug, Raylan spied the German flag style wrapping paper bunched into a ball in the trash and put two and two together. 

“It’s your birthday?”

“Two months ago,” Tim answered, his eyes and index finger still fixed on the tablet screen. 

“Some friend, sending you a late present. Shoulda done the polite thing and completely forgot.” Raylan met Tim with a narrowed-eyed stare, as though he could spot the truth himself if he looked hard enough. “How old are you?” 

For once, because the question wasn’t leveled over comic books or Young Adult fiction, it didn’t sound like an accusation. 

“Thirty.”

“Shit.” Raylan was impressed for some reason he couldn’t quite pinpoint. The fact that in all the time he’d known him, the younger Marshal had been occupying his twenties was something of a surprise to Raylan, who tried not to consort with twenty-somethings. Mostly, he arrested them. 

As a realization slowly dawned on him, Raylan frowned. “ _Exactly_ two months ago? The weekend I moved in?”

Tim’s focus was still held like a laser to his device. He allowed an offhand, “Yup. Happy birthday to me.” 

Raylan poured himself a second cup of coffee. “And you thought that, on your thirtieth birthday, you’d drive down to Harlan, engage in a bit of unpaid labor, then help another man move into your home?”

“Well when you say it like that,” Tim cooed, the corners of his mouth curling into a grin. 

“Hey,” Raylan warned with a grin of his own. He jutted out an accusatory finger at Tim. “You know it ain’t good for me to feel special.”

In his dull drawl, Tim queried, “But if I can’t flirt with you, Raylan, how do you expect to earn your keep?”

“I’ll answer the door,” Raylan said simply, drawing his mug in for another sip.

“You’ll--” Tim stopped, hearing the soft chime of the doorbell. 

“The spirits told me,” Raylan said, using his free hand to gesture what was likely meant to be ‘spooky,’ but looked more like a prostate exam for a bowling ball. 

“And here I thought the Windex I’ve been putting in your coffee was finally producing results. Don’t spoil the illusion.”

Raylan frowned. “Why Windex?”

“Trying for an X-Men reference,” Tim drawled. His attention had returned to his new gadget. “Don’t worry about it, it fell flat.”

Answering the door took the amused smile clear off Raylan’s face.

Chief Deputy Art Mullen stood in a suit jacket and khakis, frowning and wielding a bottle of bourbon in one hand. “Hey, asshole. Why the hell wasn’t I informed of this little get-up?”

Raylan gestured at his own attire: a t-shirt and jeans. “I didn’t think to call and correspond our outfits today, sorry.” 

“And now we clash,” Art said, sighing deeply. “I mean-- _this._ ” He waved with his free hand at Tim’s front door, empty garden, and pristine lawn. Raylan appreciated his sense got to get rough with the liquor. “No housewarming party, nothing?”

“It ain’t long-term,” Raylan pointed out, stepping aside and allowing Art to enter Tim’s small house. Art took a moment to look around at the empty room nearest the front door, and bare walls. “You ever been here before?”

“Once,” Art answered. “There were more people.” 

Raylan didn’t say anything; it wasn’t his place to explain O’Brien. Or Tim, for that matter.

Inside the kitchen and with a full view of the living room, Art observed the scene, taking in the remnants of Raylan and Tim’s late night: a stack of Simon Pegg films on the coffee table, a stale popcorn smell that hung in the kitchen like ugly drapes, and a few too many empty beer bottles that hadn’t made it all the way into the bin. 

“Well ain’t this just the picture of domesticity?”

Tim didn’t bother looking up from his place on the couch. “He beats me, Art.” 

“Love taps,” Art dismissed, drawing on the excuses he’d heard from wife beaters his entire career. “I see Raylan really brought his personal touch into the place.” 

“That’s the dirt he tracked in,” Tim offered, pointing. 

Raylan cut Tim off, saying, “You want a drink, Art? A glass for the one you’re holding, maybe? Or are you here on business?”

“I’m here to deliver some news,” Art said. “And I think bourbon would be a welcome addition to what I’ve got to say.” 

Raylan squinted at him tiredly and tried to remember if he’d done anything blatantly illegal as of late. “Am I fired, Art?”

Art favored Raylan with a curious look, then set his gaze on Tim. “Did he do something to deserve it?”

Tim stood to join the party in the kitchen. “Cumulatively…?” 

“Delivering a message at my--Tim’s place. On the weekend,” Raylan ticked off the reasons for his hasty question. “Am I jumping canyons or curbs here, Art?”

“Well now I hate to destroy this healthy bit of self-awareness you’ve got going on, but it’s worse than that.” Art set the bourbon on the kitchen counter with a damning thud. “You’ve been promoted.” 

Raylan very nearly laughed out loud. “No shit?” 

Art beamed; he was just as surprised as Raylan. “A smidgen of a new title, something of a pay raise, and if you keep your nose clean--”

“There’s the kicker,” Tim muttered.

“--you’ll have your choice of assignment in one, two years. Congratulations.” Art clapped Raylan on the shoulder, but the celebratory moment was nonetheless underscored by the locale and, of course, its other inhabitant. Tim, casual in a t-shirt and dark jeans, was leaning against the counter and inspecting the bourbon Art had brought. Art shook his head, amused. “Remember when your slumber parties used to be a punishment?”

“When did that change,” Tim said.

Art managed to smother his grin enough to get out his secondary announcement. “And now the bad news. Tim--”

“Am _I_ fired?”

“You’re gonna wish that’s what I’ve got to tell you.” Art stopped and sighed. “Diane McCillon.” 

Both Raylan and Tim recognized the name. She was a more senior Deputy, a transfer from Virginia, whose son was military and had been maintaining military-civilian relations in Iraq. 

Art gave the only explanation either Tim or Raylan could have expected: “Her son Kevin died. I’m heading to her place, now, to speak with her and her husband.” Art took off his cap and scratched his head--a nervous habit. “Telling someone to take all the time they need over the phone is just shitty. Sounds like a firing, to be honest.” Art’s gaze found Tim. “Thought maybe you could tag along?”

Tim’s stare was unwavering. “I don’t want to do that,” he said. 

“I hate to ask.”

“Really?” Tim intoned rudely, then sighed and added, “I hardly even know her.” 

It was as much compliance as Tim was willing to offer. Art knew that and continued, “I’ll do,” he shook his head, hating that he had to negotiate in this way, “ _the consoling._ I thought you could tell her what comes next.” 

“Is there a body?” Tim asked, although it might have been a joke. He wet his lips, glanced back towards the couch where he’d planned to spend his day with the e-reader, and finally found Art’s open expression again. “I really don’t want to do this, Art. Just making that clear.” 

“Five minutes?” Art guessed. He’d made one or two of such similar requests in the past. 

Tim issued a thumbs up and disappeared to change his shirt to something more becoming of a half-assed funeral march. In the kitchen, Art congratulated Raylan again, but the jovial mood had left them. 

Although Raylan didn’t think it possible, Tim returned several hours later in a worse mood than when he’d left. He drank his lunch out on the deck, occasionally swearing at the birds that came to land on the wooden railing. The pinks and oranges of early evening were coloring the sky in waves. Tim watched their progression with the kind of focus that would make any lesser man’s head hurt, or else allow him to actualize some form of complete inner peace. _Not Rangers, then._

“Hey,” Raylan said, preparing to make an offer that was as much for Tim’s benefit as his own; he’d made little progress with his therapeutic scribblings. “You wanna get a drink? Lindsey’s?” 

Tim raised a skeptical brow. He _was_ rapidly depleting his own supply. “You still welcome there?”

“Other owner knows what went down. I--and my esteemed guests--drink free.”

Tim lifted himself out of the patio chair. “Lindsey’s it is.” 

“‘Less you have a different place in mind.”

“For free drinks at your ego’s expense? Can’t think of one, no.” 

-

Although sitting in a booth rather than at a bar was only a formality--as the owner explained, free drinks at the bar would cause nothing short of a riot--Raylan found it a difficult setting to occupy. Both men felt cordoned off and although the drinks kept coming, no amount of alcohol seemed to sate the feeling of sitting hunched over a polished bar top, on display but still isolated to that single standing island, the bar stool.

Tim was scoping out the bar, eyeing exits as well as men. 

“Aw, Sugar Pickle, don’t be jealous,” Tim teased in his dull drawl when he saw Raylan fidgeting. “I’ll always come home to you.”

“That guy you shot,” Raylan started without a preamble, then proceeded quickly so that Tim couldn’t cut him off with some jibe ( _Which one? Remind me. Sure this wasn’t one of yours?_ ). “Did you go to his funeral?”

Tim seemed genuinely caught off guard. “Colton Rhodes? No, I didn’t. What the fuck kind of question is that?” 

“Rachel said you went to a military funeral not long after that,” Raylan returned, digging his thumb into a tiny scratch in the outside of his beer bottle. “It would be weird if you did.” 

“Yeah, it would.” Tim brought a glass to his lips, then stopped. “Glad I didn’t.” He took a much-needed sip and asked anxiously, “Rachel thinks I did?”

“Yep,” Raylan said. “I’m guessing you have a perfectly reasonable explanation.” 

“Yes,” Tim answered promptly. He was no longer tailing asses with his eyes; his gaze was pitted on the cracked, aged wood of the table. “Oh, were you expecting to hear it?”

“Well, only because you’re so eager to share.”

Tim schooled his scowl and prepared the kind of answer he’d only have to give once. “The morning you took off with Hunter Mosley on your Driving Miss Daisy routine, I was ID’ing my friend Mark at his dealer’s place. Double homicide, no leads, big… mess.” Tim waited for a waitress to replenish their drinks before continuing. “I get it into my head that Colton Rhodes left me that mess and not a day later, he confirms it to me at that snake church down in Harlan. And he’s _done_ , you know? He’s fucked up every little task Boyd Crowder has set for him, and he opted out. He called it a day and had me shoot him.” Staring at the amber liquid in his heavy glass, Tim finished, “I went to Mark’s funeral because Mark was my friend. My lying, idiot, drug-addict friend. We all got one, don’t we?” 

“Technically mine’s a drug _dealer._ ” Raylan upturned his glass and allowed the whiskey to burn down his throat. It was only marginally smoother than Tim’s answer. “So you’ll tell me, but not Rachel.”

“I don’t care what you think,” Tim reasoned meanly. “Just come up with something to tell her.” 

Raylan scoffed. “I won’t lie to Rachel for you, that’d be my ass.”

“I lie for you all the goddamn time!”

“I presumed you did that out of the goodness of your heart,” Raylan said, teasing a grin.

“Fuck that,” Tim returned darkly. “You could have just asked Crowder. I’m sure if anyone showed up to Colt’s funeral, it’d be his _brother in arms,_ or whatever fucking bullshit.”

Raylan studied Tim, suddenly deeply curious. It was like finding a severed foot all over again. He got the sinking feeling there was an entire body of things left to uncover and it made him uneasy. “Alright, I think you’ve drunk your fill. Save some for the fishes.”

Tim leaned back against the old upholstery of the booth. He gestured with his empty shot glass. “These ain’t free, are they?”

Raylan smiled, shook his head, and signaled for one last round. “Happy birthday.”

\- 

After the foot came the shin, knee, joints and sinew. 

On Monday, Tim got a call and left early from work. Raylan arrived at their place a few hours later, surprised to see Tim with his arm slung around the back of an elderly man, large hand clutching the man’s far shoulder in a vice-like grip. The man was sat bent over with his face in his weathered and spotted hands, sobbing quietly and speaking incoherently. 

Over him, Tim caught Raylan’s stare. Tim was impassive, his face a stoney slab of pale contours and fine angles. Although nothing was said, Raylan was perceptive enough to turn and leave the house without disturbing the two. He made himself scarce for a few hours, reading the parenting books in the nearest bookstore, but never bringing himself to purchase any. It had been a profound trial, but Raylan had made it to the Emotional Safety chapter of _Raising Our Children, Raising Ourselves._

He returned to find Tim alone on the couch, drinking.

Raylan didn’t know what to think of what he’d seen, and didn’t even hazard a quip or a joke to ease the tension. He merely asked if there was enough whiskey left for him. 

“Mark’s dad,” Tim explained, pouring Raylan a glass. Raylan was able to connect the dots well enough himself--an older man, perhaps never able to understand and maneuver around some hyperactive kid. No man cried like he had for anything other than his first and only son. 

Instead of wowing Tim with what he’d grasped of the situation, Raylan just sat and accepted his drink, then waited for Tim to spill the truths he hadn’t let himself impart on Mark’s father. They were still a few drinks out.

When Tim finally began to talk, it wasn’t about Mark so much as--Mark’s death.

And by extension, Colton Rhodes. 

It made Raylan’s gut turn to realize Tim was actually juggling the two, twinning one with the other and, worst of all, threading the connection with his own inaction. Maybe he’d already drank too much and was confused; maybe he really and truly believed he’d as good as orchestrated a one-man firing squad. 

“It was suicide any way you look at it,” Tim said, licking his lips before burning them again on his drink. “He lets Mark live, Mark tells me what he saw. He kills Mark, and I find out anyway. I can’t expect a heroin addict to really think things through, but, _goddamn._ What a fuckin’ idiot.”

Raylan didn’t have anything to say to that, and in the quiet Tim thought about how he hadn’t seen Mark in months, not since his last relapse. He knew he avoided Mark--a lot of guys did. It was easy to get sucked into the promise of drugs. Tim knew it. There were guys who didn’t hang around him, because of the alcohol. 

There was a fine kind of hierarchy to the way a man destroys himself.

Tim thought about sharing that sentiment with Raylan, because at least Raylan would _get it._ He would never understand what it meant to go to war with a man--no matter what Raylan thought of Boyd Crowder--but maybe he could comprehend coming back to something ruined.

 _Hell,_ Tim thought, revisiting his dismissal of Crowder. Tim didn’t know any fellow Rangers who came back as white supremacists.

“Suicide,” Tim repeated, settling on a more familiar topic and raising both brows briefly in interest. “It’s either that or it’s my fault. I told Mark to settle his debt with his dealer. He wouldn’t have been there if I’d paid it myself or busted the guy.”

“He wasn’t there to score?” It was the first question Raylan had asked of the whole ordeal.

“I ID’d the body,” Tim spat. “I wasn’t gonna read the autopsy report, too.” 

Raylan drank to that.

_Was Arlo receiving his medication in prison?_

Raylan drank again, surprised and angry with where his mind was headed.

“Assisted suicide or…” Raylan trailed off, not willing to put a label on whatever culpability Tim might have in either Mark or Colt’s death if Tim wouldn’t. “Which are you leaning towards?”

Tim helped himself to more whiskey. 

Raylan offered his take: “I would have thought it’d be guilt, knowing Colt wouldn’t have shot you.” 

“You weren’t there,” Tim said, knowing his defensive posturing was a lie and Raylan was right--Colt wouldn’t have done anything with his gun beyond tempt Tim.

“I’ve been there, Tim. Plenty of times.” Raylan set down his drink, lifted his hat, and ran a tired hand through his hair. “Knowing the other guy doesn’t have a chance. It helps if they’re assholes, if they’ve hurt somebody. Don’t help near enough, though.” He rested his hat on the arm of the couch and looked at Tim, open and honest. “You’re sad your friend is gone. You can feel guilty about Colt, too.”

Tim didn’t like this all-inclusive package of circumstance, guilt, fault, and shame. It was a great deal more than he’d felt about things--about _anything_ \--in years. He felt it all coalesce and settle in his chest, and Tim might have made a fist and turned it against himself a few times, as if he thought he could knock the fixture loose. 

But it was a living torment, and it was there to stay. 

He looked at Raylan and thought immediately that the man looked good. Handsome and promoted and _sane,_ somehow, despite everything. Tim dropped his head, feeling embarrassed for thinking those things and imagining that Raylan could read every soft feeling or spike of jealousy on Tim’s sullen face. 

“It used to make sense,” Tim said. The cancerous ache in his chest seemed to swell and contort with each breath. It drank in the whiskey as sure as Tim put glass after glass past his lips. Tim gave a tiny shake of his head--like he’d flinched at the burn, except he’d gotten used to it. “I can’t rationalize this. He wasn’t going to kill me. He killed my friend, and that used to be enough.” Tim didn’t like to think anything he’d done in Afghanistan was comparable to murder, but even seven thousand miles couldn’t distance himself enough from feeling otherwise. “Not here, though. Right?”

“I ain’t the man to ask,” Raylan said. His tone had a lighter touch, like he was making a joke to ease Tim’s edgy mood.

It didn't work. Tim poured himself a full glass and downed it. “I think about re-enlisting,” He admitted. “All the time.” His voice was raw and wet and Tim kept chewing his lip like he was dying for a cigarette. “They’d have me back, now.” 

Tim laughed a little at that. 

“It’s a fucking death wish,” he added dully, not excusing his want. 

Raylan topped off his glass, emptying the bottle. “So are a lot of things.”

Tim drank it in. 

“I need one more,” he said, standing--which was impressive in itself.

“Drink?”

“Bottle.”

Raylan stood with him. “As much as I’d like to see you go from morose to belligerent, we got work tomorrow.”

Tim slowly shook his head in protest, but his feet took him to his bedroom, nonetheless. He leaned against the doorway a moment, first only to maintain his balance, but then to address what he felt was the last secret he really had. There was some drunken zeal that had him wanting to outmatch Raylan, to say _Ha! You thought I was done. You thought there was some shred of normalcy here. Fuckin’ fooled you._

But more than that--

The words turned his stomach, tightened his throat, and pressed at the backs of his teeth. He was either going to vomit or self-combust, and it was a real fucking pain, feeling that way all the time. 

”Why I shot Colt,” Tim started, then self-corrected, “Why I shoot _anyone,_ ” he stopped again, allowing time for a sweet smile to cross his face. “I’m good at it. When I _got_ good at it, I was young enough to like it. You like the things you’re good at.” He scrubbed a hand across his face, but the smile remained. “Yep.”

He went to bed. 

\- 

Tim dreamed that after he’d taken the shot, taken Colt’s life like the man had all but asked, taken the man’s sunglasses, he took a seat. 

Two makeshift pews behind Colt, it was like sitting behind the man in church. Maybe he’d fallen asleep, Tim imagined within the dream. Maybe he always did, and didn’t usually sit in the front because of it, but today--today his heroin-addled mind told him in a voice that was not his own that he needed to be a little closer to Jesus. 

He still fell asleep, of course, because the message didn’t change, the lullaby hymns didn’t change, and _hell,_ this is where he always slept. 

It wasn’t normal. Tim never re-visited his kills like this. Even his nightmares weren’t narratives drawn from memory; they were pieces and parts, cobbled together, made worse, made impossible. The start of a patrol he knew ended without incident suddenly turning bloody and chaotic--this was Tim’s nightmare. 

He awoke not to the sound of his own breathing, but to a series of knocks at his door. 

Raylan opened the door and stuck his head in, immediately seeking out Tim’s disheveled form. Unlike Tim who, at some point in the night, had wriggled out of his pants and underwear, but not his dress shirt or socks, Raylan was completely dressed, boots and hat included. “It’s 6:31. You dead or something?”

Tim forced his eyes open and blinked confusedly at Raylan. He felt like he was still battling against the torrential waves of a dream. “AM? Why are you awake?”

“Winona called. She’s having the baby.”

Tim hurled his pillow at the door. “Well _run, Forrest, run._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2) A Storm of Swords. 463.
> 
> ETA: WHAT ARE SOME GOOD NAMES FOR A PUPPY? Lines are open, America.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kelly's way pissed.

Being a father suited him, much as he was loathe to accept it. 

Or, was _hesitant_ to accept it. Once he was convinced of the fact, Raylan would love nothing more than having outdone Arlo by becoming a loving person despite the odds, whatever they were--nature, nurture. The deck was stacked against him, but Raylan had beat the game.

Better still, the proposed therapy sessions were left by the wayside in favor of that tiny, pink, wailing person. Each streak and glob of shit that colored her backside and legs was a miracle, born of a miracle. She screamed and yet they were still in awe. She looked like a red-faced blob fish on her better days, and they thought she was beautiful. When she slept, Janette had her parents mesmerized. 

If he could, Raylan would never put her down. He held her carefully, hands puzzled into place to gently secure her tiny frame and position her head against his chest so that she could hear his heartbeat and know her father. 

Winona, for whom the labor had been long and painful, was grateful for his company. Raylan was calm and quiet and could inspire the same in their child. Although her body screamed for rest, Winona battled for wakefulness. This was everything she'd wanted and she endeavored to enjoy it for as long as it lasted. 

She agonized over what to tell Raylan. Welcoming him back in would only invite later, more profound heartache. She didn't believe that he would leave them--no, that was Winona's lot in life. But she knew Raylan could be snatched away. His sense of duty was so strong and yet so _warped_ that Winona did not dare use their daughter to test his commitment. 

Her heart broke night after night as she played the scenario over in her mind. Whatever she allowed, there was one reality for which she would have to prepare: raising her child alone.

For the sake of practicality, however, Raylan's immediate presence was unmatched. 

His attentions torn between both woman and child, he hovered over each, darted through the space between. 

Raylan emailed Tim a photo of his daughter when she was nestled like a pink-colored pearl in Winona’s arms. Nearly an hour later, he remembered Art and Rachel and issued the same message. 

Raylan cashed in some vacation days, and as for the time he couldn’t account for--Rachel and Tim pulled some extra hours and managed to keep his pile of work from toppling over. 

Eventually, however, Raylan found himself bound for Lexington. 

The last conversation he had with Winona at her mother’s place was on the wrap-around porch. It was warm out, and raining. The air was thick and muggy, but Raylan was not quick to disappear into the climate controlled atmosphere of his car, and Winona made herself comfortable on the porch swing. Her hair--again, in its poofy little bun--would later pay dearly for her outing. 

Raylan had been holding his keys in his hand for over an hour, but couldn’t seem to see himself off. By his actions over the past two weeks alone, he'd convinced Winona he could be of more help if the distance between him and a full diaper wasn't so great. She wondered about that now as she waited to see him drive off in his town car to someplace other than the corner store.

“Would you take a job in Tennessee?”

Although her career in a law office had successfully woven a kind of flat disapproval into her voice, Winona sounded genuinely hopeful.

Raylan was sorry to have an answer for her, and not some wayward promise. Truthfully, he’d already made the call.

“They don't want me in Tennessee.”

Suring up a tired smile, Winona hid her disappointment. She knew as much going in--had even once written her goodbyes Raylan to the effect of, _I’m done trying to change who you are._ Anywhere Raylan was, it was a struggle to have him. “Can’t blame them, I suppose.”

Janette gurgled hungrily against Winona’s shoulder. 

“Like I don’t feel enough like a cow already,” she grumbled, lifting her shirt to give Janette access to her breast.

“I’m going to miss this the most,” Raylan said with a smile. With the hand that _wasn’t_ cradling her infant child’s head, Winona flipped him off.

“I guess that’s fair,” she allowed. “My tits will never be this big again.”

“Twist the knife in a little deeper, Winona, I think there’s a vital organ or two you missed.”

“Your dick ain’t so vital,” Winona smirked. 

“It was a little,” Raylan argued.

Winona swept a hand over the start of a dark wisp of hair on Janette’s head. She smiled, seeing that the curl, too, was frizzing in the humid air. “I don’t know that we’d be good for her. Together.”

Raylan’s heart sank. “Winona.”

Winona lifted her head and looked Raylan square in the eyes. She remembered the man who had loved her and Winona fucking _hated_ that she could still feel that way about him. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Am I a bad mother for wanting you here, anyway?”

Raylan joined her on the porch swing. 

Winona’s mother’s house was situated at the end of a keyhole. The rain fell harder and obscured everything beyond the next two in the parallel rows of homes. “You know that house in Masterson Station you were looking at?”

Winona laughed. “Raylan, that was almost a year ago. It ain’t still for sale.”

“No, but the place next to it opened up.” Raylan tried for casual as he continued, “Thought I might stop by, wrap it up nice and pretty in police tape, spread a rumor or two about a meth lab, something to get the price lowered?” His gaze met Winona’s. “Would I be wasting my time?”

The clouds seemed to open up and drop another wave of rain; it was loud enough to upset Janette, but quickly passed. 

“Maybe,” Winona answered honestly, then nudged Raylan playfully with her elbow. “I haven’t seen the place yet. Could have seashell motif sinks; you don’t know.” 

Raylan draped an arm across Winona’s shoulders. He tangled his fingers into her hair, and once again threatened to unleash her bun. “You should come up sometime, have a look.”

Winona glanced tiredly at Raylan. A road trip was not in the cards for her, at present. “And stay in your bachelor pad?” 

“It’s actually a real nice place Tim’s got,” Raylan allowed. “It’s small, but--open. Has a basement, two car garage. Kind of on this slope, right, so there’s a little deck hanging off the main floor…” 

“Well hell,” Winona drawled; she could sound as country as fencepost when she wanted to. “Maybe I’ll just move in and we’ll stage a coup.” 

Smirking, Raylan said, “Tim might have a leg up on us in that area.”

Winona smiled and shook her head. “It’s so weird, you two living together. I always got the feeling he was constantly… annoyed with you.”

“That is a gross understatement.” Raylan turned his head to bury his nose in Winona’s hair. When he sighed, his warm breath grazed the top of his child’s head. Winona shifted some. Better than anyone, she knew the score. 

Raylan hated the idea of leaving, if only because he was so goddamn good at it. 

He hadn’t looked back at Harlan until he was forced to. Imagining a week without the constant cries of his child, without Winona’s stable presence… Raylan could envision leaving them, too. Being alone was Raylan’s first love--born out of necessity under Arlo’s indiscriminate rage, but nurtured and developed into something of a lifestyle and now, a crutch. 

He pressed a kiss to Janette’s tiny head, then another to Winona’s cheek. Because he’d again released her knotted bun, his lips mostly met with her hair, tangled and unwashed. 

Gaze dropping to Janette, Raylan promised, “I’ll be back soon as I can.” Meeting Winona’s and seeing the same unreadable expression he got to know so well during their divorce, he amended, “Sooner, if you’ll have me.”

The rain followed Raylan home.

\- 

He drove back to Lexington on a Saturday, planning to use Sunday to play catch-up at the office. It was just after eight when he pulled up to Tim’s place. Raylan’s key used to be stuck to a plastic, pink and purple keychain. Raylan had nearly thrown the thing away, believing it to be junk or some weird joke of Tim’s. The item went back in the kitchen drawer Tim had pulled it from in the first place, however, when Raylan realized it must have belonged to one of O’Brien’s daughters.

Inside, the television was on, blaring a needlessly loud weather forecast. News of an expectedly cooler winter wasn’t garnering Tim’s attention, however. He was more consumed with his guest, as Raylan came to see.

Tim was caged over another man, legs spread to accommodate the man below him, one hand cradling a head of dark hair, the other balanced on the couch cushion. They were kissing furiously, although only in the early efforts of getting one another off.

“So it’s that kind of a weekend,” Raylan said, not intending to announce himself, but not endowed with enough patience or alcohol, presently, to manage an entrance any better than the one he came up with. At any rate, he startled the pair out of their rut. 

“Well it _was,_ ” Tim snapped, sitting up and turning to see Raylan. Admittedly, it was difficult for Tim to look menacing with shiny pink lips, mussed hair, and a stranger’s hand down the front of his pants.

The hand was the first to go. Its owner yanked it away then rolled out from under Tim, collecting himself much faster than the Marshal. He was a sharp-faced man with bright blue eyes and dark brown hair. Raylan thought he looked like a cop--and then finally understood why he was always asked to produce a badge. 

“Don’t mind me,” Raylan said with a tired wave, disappearing with his duffel bag into his bedroom. 

“Who’s that?” the stranger asked of Tim. He sounded nervous, and Raylan changed his identifier to _rookie_ cop.

“Roommate,” Tim huffed. “Don’t worry about it.”

“He’s cute.”

“And there goes my boner.”

That was all of the conversation Raylan heard. He flopped down on his bed, desperate for a nap after the hours he’d pulled with Winona tending to Janette, not to mention the lonely drive to Lexington. 

He hadn’t been stretched out on his bed longer than three minutes before Tim was pounding at his door, announcing loudly, “It’s safe to come out. You’ve sufficiently un-fucked my evening.”

Raylan answered his door, frowning and staring blearily at Tim. “Fucked?”

Tim leaned against the doorframe. “Nope, that prospect hightailed it out the door.” He wet his swollen lips and dropped his grudge. Or else, he was too proud to let Raylan see him frustrated. “You hungry? Was gonna order a pizza.” 

After nothing but cold ribs and vegetable casseroles at Winona’s, Raylan was practically salivating over the prospect of a hot, cheesy slice. “Tim,” Raylan said, his eyes half-shut with dreamy hope, “If you ordered a pizza right now, _I’d_ fuck you.”

“Pass,” Tim said, willing the frown off his face. He supposed he’d set himself up for that one. “But congrats, you’re paying for it.” 

Raylan napped until the pizza arrived, and the benefit of a hot, greasy meal perked him up some. He was of a mind to spend the remainder of the evening on Tim’s couch, watching _The Avengers._ The doorbell chimed again that evening, just as Loki was being escorted through the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier. 

Raylan lobbed Tim a knowing smile. “Do I need to vacate the couch?”

“Just stay to one corner,” Tim said, not looking back. “Scrunch up real small.” 

Instead of Tim’s potential one-night-stand, Yvonne hung in the doorway, striking a leggy pose. 

“Well howdy,” Tim drawled, stepping aside. She strode confidently in, swinging a little leather fringe purse over her shoulder. Her hands were now free to take hold of Tim’s, then draw the Deputy into an impromptu dance--just a give-and-take led entirely by her hips and twisting middle. Tim didn’t mimic the moves, but he’d adopted some small variation of Yvonne’s toothy smile. Her smile, however, had the advantage of a candy-red lip color.

Raylan muted the television and turned in his seat, taking a good look at Tim’s neighbor.

Her sweeping, faded denim shirt-dress might have swallowed her athletic frame if it weren’t for the knotted belt around her middle. She wore squat cowboy boots and her curly black hair in all its wild glory. The ensemble would have looked like a costume without Yvonne’s confidence in it. 

“Me and some of the girls,” she told Tim, her hands still clutching his, “Are going to a cowboy bar.” 

“You don’t say,” Tim teased. Yvonne socked him in the shoulder. 

“Belligerent drunk,” Tim scolded. 

Yvonne cosied up to Tim’s kitchen counter and managed to lift herself neatly atop it. She bounced the heels of her boots happily against Tim’s cabinet doors. “Come with us,” she insisted. “We’ll score you a cowboy!”

Tim seemed unmoved by the invitation. He gestured toward Raylan. “There’s one on the couch, right there.”

“One you can _ride,_ ” Yvonne corrected, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. 

While Raylan let out a soft huff of laughter, Tim didn’t find the offer quite as amusing. He folded his arms across his chest and held the position loosely. “You been pre-gaming some?” He favored Yvonne with a knowing look and a tight smile.

“ _Yesss,_ ” she said, giddy.

“I taught you well,” Tim observed, then added definitively, “I ain’t interested, to be honest. Maybe Raylan wants to go?”

It was a shrewd move and Raylan wasn’t ready for it.

_“Uh.”_

“You could be the designated driver,” Tim pressed. 

Yvonne dropped off the counter and stood before Raylan, her hands clasped in prayer. “That would be _awesome_ because Kelly is way pissed about it.”

Tim hid his glee under a mask of stoney seriousness. His hand had found a drink--Tim was quick and quiet with this skill--and he smiled against the lip of the bottle. “Kelly’s way pissed, Raylan.” 

“I’m beginning to know the feeling,” Raylan said, considering the proposition now as something he might as well accept without much needless posturing. A night out with beautiful women was always a welcome prospect. A night _in_ with Winona always held the promise of something more, but… 

Hell, Raylan was a father, now--he wasn’t dead. He waved an errant hand, signaling his acceptance.

“Raylan’s got some celebrating to do,” Tim informed Yvonne. It was as though he’d anticipated Raylan’s easy turn and decided to make it just that much harder. “He’s got a baby.”

After some further cajoling, Raylan begrudgingly fished out his smartphone and showed Yvonne a photo. It was one thing to parade around the office, but Raylan didn’t know Yvonne. He didn’t want this to be the first in a string of bad behavior: namely, showing his baby’s pictures to every barista, secretary, or human being who was forced to allow Raylan a moment of their time and attention. 

“She is _beautiful,_ ” Yvonne cooed, then stood straight and planted her hands on her slim hips. “But goddamn, that’ll sober a girl right up.” 

“Pregnancy,” Tim intoned, his voice dark and deep. “It can happen to anyone.”

“I think one of my ovaries just shriveled up and died,” Yvonne said, shaking her head at Tim. “You may want to consult a pamphlet or something, though.” 

“I’m confident that what I’m doing will produce results,” Tim said. His dry phrasing was spoken half into the mouth of Tim’s beer bottle. It made Raylan smile because the joke was so familiar--not in content, necessarily, but in delivery. Tim had a habit of delivering a joke or a damning comment with his back turned, walking so coolly away that one might imagine not having heard him at all. 

It was interesting to Raylan, too, that Tim would first shy away from any mention of his orientation, but just as quickly turn a joke around on himself. Raylan supposed it came back to Tim’s concern that he not tell anyone, which itself was a fear cultivated in the Army and the circumstances of Tim’s departure. Tim wanted to be in control of the conversation, however it went down. 

“Hey,” Yvonne nudged Raylan’s boot with her own. “Let’s go, cowpoke! Mosey!”

“Right now?” Raylan asked, gesturing with a cold slice of pizza to what, in his mind, was complete splendor: a comfortable couch, a greasy dinner, and an action movie.

“You’re dressed for the occasion, aren’t you?” Yvonne prompted, smiling. 

Disgustingly pleased with himself, Tim ushered the pair out of his home. “You kids have fun,” he called after Raylan and Yvonne as they approached Kelly’s powder blue Prius. Raylan turned back around, spread his arms in question-- _what did I do to deserve this?_

Tim, his own car keys in hand, returned a pointed look. _You know exactly what._

\- 

An hour and a half later, Tim’s keys were back on his kitchen counter, along with his wallet--itself a little lighter after a cover charge and the purchase of a few beers. 

Conversely, Tim was in bed, feeling warm and satisfied and a little proud, too, for such quick turnaround time. His gaze found the ceiling. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” he said, his voice thick and wet like he’d gone to sleep with a bottle of something good. “I needed that.”

“I’m glad.” The weight shifted on the bed, then an arm snaked across his torso and dipped under his shirt. Tim rolled a little onto his side, making even accidental access to the scar on his hip impossible. The hand retreated. 

Tim’s stare found his bedroom window, but he didn’t allow himself to linger. He turned his head, looking narrowing over his own shoulder at his present bedmate. “Thanks, uh,” 

The man waited a hopeful beat and the supplied dully, “Anthony.”

“Yep,” Tim said. “Yep.” Like Anthony had supplied the answer to a particularly tricky question.

Which, well...

“Yeah,” Anthony sighed, giving another answer to a question Tim hadn’t asked. “Maybe I’ll go.”

Tim rolled flat on his back and rested a hand on his stomach to prevent any further exploration under his shirt. He tried to smile and look kindly, but with his half-lidded eyes Tim was more the picture of sleepy bliss. “Dude, I’ve got you covered. I just need a breather. That was… really good.” Tim rubbed a hand over his belly, content. Anthony took it as an invitation, and rested his head on Tim’s chest. 

Tim turned and stared out the barest sliver of the window again, finding a spot on the horizon to concentrate his attention, until he felt he could return himself to the man in his room without shifting or otherwise voicing his discomfort. He counted tree tops first, then imagined them again as he stared into the sweep of brown hair fanning over the man’s head. He kept a fine part along one side, like a schoolboy or a 50s era adman, except his hair was thick and soft and styled less severely. Tim reached out to touch it, and watched as his giant hand seemed to dwarf Anthony’s skull. He felt Anthony smile against his belly.

Tim thought about the guy from earlier in his evening--darker hair, gelled back, sticking up where Tim had got his hands into it. Tim supposed he hadn’t known that guy’s name, either. 

After a few moments Tim sat up to his elbows and Anthony followed suit, his attention pinned to Tim like a medal. “How do you want it?” Tim asked easily. “You wanna fuck my face?”

Tim was close enough that Anthony could reach out and cup his cheeks with his hands. He did this, and brushed a thumb over Tim’s bottom lip. Tim let him, figuring they’d kiss and get Anthony excited, then Tim would get to work. “You have a very fuckable face,” Anthony admitted.

“Grandma writes that in my birthday card every year.”

Anthony was too focused on Tim’s throat to register the odd comment. “But I’d rather…” His hands traveled the length of Tim’s neck and torso, then came to settle on his ass.

“Uh-huh,” Tim said, finding the showmanship unnecessary. He returned to his leisurely position--one hand on his belly, his other arm tucked behind his head. “Bit forward, ain’t it?”

“You asked what I wanted,” Anthony said--a little disappointedly, sure, but embarrassed, too, that he’d made the request and Tim hadn’t been receptive. “You can say no.”

Tim gave him a flat look. “No shit.”

Anthony had big eyes and full lips--they’d been soft on Tim’s cock--a whole face full of too-big features sort of like Tim, but in the negative: dark brows, dark eyes, a striking and thin nose where Tim’s was much wider, less refined. Tim guessed he’d been a weird looking kid, too, with an open face that garners unwanted attention. Meeting him now, people offhandedly thought the crease in Tim’s forehead came from squinting into a rifle scope for ten years, but he’d had that little groove since he was a child. Always narrowing his eyes, trying to look smaller and not so inviting. 

Lost in thought, Tim very nearly missed Anthony’s awkward apology.

“That came out bad,” Anthony said, wishing he hadn’t pressed his luck and just taken Tim’s offer or, hell--just kept his head on the man’s warm chest a while longer. Feeling he had nothing more to lose, Anthony went on, “I just--haven’t done it since my last serious boyfriend.”

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Tim tried to summon even a miniscule amount of interest. “Mhm, why’s that?”

Anthony gave an exaggerated sigh, like he hated to relive the story. “We had _two years_ together, and then he met some guy in a bar, some slut who practically sucked him off through his cargo shorts on the goddamn dancefloor.”

_But you ain’t bitter about it,_ Tim thought to himself, but instead--because the advance wasn’t so unfamiliar to him--he offered dryly, “I can’t imagine such a thing.” 

Anthony went a little pink around the ears. “Nothing like you, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Tim concurred, reasoning, “I said ‘hello.’” 

Tim sat back again, contemplative. He’d been fucked before and could honestly say he liked it, but there was something about taking a cock in his mouth to which Tim believed he afforded a little more finesse. He almost wanted to tell the guy, _You sure? You’re missing out._

“What is it that you do, again?”

“Banker,” Anthony said, absently bumping his pay grade up some from _bank teller._

“Right,” Tim let his head drift back against his pillow. “That’s a nice suit you’ve got on my floor.” 

“It was a privilege to take it off.”

“You like your job?”

“Not… especially.” 

“Your name really Anthony?”

“Wha--? Yes, of course.”

“You ever go by Tony?”

“Sure…”

“Alright then,” Tim said, sitting up again. 

Anthony followed suit. “What…?”

“Just getting to know you better,” Tim drawled. “How are you for fuckin’ guys? You a gentle touch?”

“Well, _yeah,_ sure--”

Tim interrupted him, saying slowly and definitively, “I don’t require a gentle touch.”

He leaned over reach his bedside drawer. 

“Oh,” Anthony breathed, understanding suddenly overpowered by his excitement. “ _Awesome._ ” He rolled off the bed, kicked off his slacks, and wriggled out of his briefs. 

“Shit,” Tim murmured, rifling through the drawer. “I’m out of lube.” 

“Bathroom?” Anthony asked, hopeful they could make due with an unscented lotion. 

“Door on your right,” Tim said, issuing his tacit agreement. Anthony went on ahead and Tim called after him, “But don’t look too eager.”

After pulling his underwear up from his knees, Tim straightened his t-shirt. He sat on the side of his bed for a moment, still feeling dizzy from having his dick sucked so expertly. When he got to the bathroom, Anthony was already having a look through the medicine cabinet. 

“Looks like a straight guy’s bathroom,” Anthony muttered, staring blankly at a plastic container of floss, extra toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream, and a box of disposable razors.

“I share it with one,” Tim answered, hanging in the doorway. Anthony had a smattering of freckles across his shoulders and back. Natural or nurtured by sun exposure, Tim didn’t care. He liked them. Tim had always had something of a love affair with bodies that accepted the elements easily--not like his own, which tended to turn pink with angry resistance, then fall pale again and take another beating. “Try under the sink. I’m not using shampoo.”

“It’s not so bad,” Anthony mumbled, taking a knee. He worried turning up nothing, and wanted to keep the opportunity afloat. 

“Nothing that ain’t supposed to get in your eye is going in my ass,” Tim said dryly. 

Anthony frowned, and was very close to issuing an _ah, but--_ when Tim caught his error, and jokingly asked, “What, you never caught a dick in the eye before?” 

While Anthony laughed and continued his search through a small first aid kit Tim kept under the sink, and Tim stared at Anthony’s ass, the front door opened and closed. 

_Raylan._

“Shit,” Tim ground out, resting his head against the doorframe in lieu of slamming it there, like he desperately wanted to. “Shitting _shit_.” 

If he was in any position to consider the circumstances of his co-worker’s return--that is, beyond the phenomenally poor timing--Tim would have rightly attributed Raylan’s quiet approach being due to the fact he had driven the girls home, then walked the block to reach Tim’s place. Simple, easy. 

Instead, Tim felt like Raylan had gotten the drop on him. Accidental or not, Tim couldn’t disassociate the feeling from an ambush. Beyond the natural shock and anxiety, Tim felt a distinct kind of anger surge through his chest, ache in his teeth, and sting at his eyes. It was most directed at his own self, for being sloppy and forgetting the lessons he’d learned in the Army. 

Raylan strutted through the hallway, completely unaware.

Although Tim was more-or-less modest in a t-shirt and boxers, Anthony was stark naked and, having only met Tim and sucked his cock, not yet attuned to the particular set in the man’s jaw that, to a more apt student, read as _wear fucking toilet paper if you have to, this man is senior to me at my goddamn place of business._

Having reached the kitchen, Raylan caught a glimpse of Tim’s guest and adverted his eyes. “Oh, my.” 

A million sorry excuses ran through Tim’s head. He worried if he opened his mouth, one of the more stupid ones would come flying out. Tim shrugged and said nothing.

Raylan tried to settle his focus on Tim, but there was a bare backside operating not two feet away. “You, uh, looking for--”

“Yup,” Tim interrupted, eyes on the ceiling. If there was ever a time to pray to a supernatural being he didn’t believe in, ten seconds ago would have been it. 

Raylan nodded, slow and thoughtful. “I might have something in my shaving kit.”

Mistaking Tim’s icy demeanor for a cool confidence, Anthony stood to attention. He was not the least bit embarrassed or concerned, like Tim’s earlier guest had been at the prospect of a third party milling about. He did, however, have the wherewithal to cover himself with a hand towel. “Well share the wealth, brother.” 

Tim dug his thumbnail into the crease that frequented his brow, mortified but not of a mind to silence his guest. He clapped Anthony on the shoulder, encouraging his return to the bedroom, and followed Raylan at a distance. 

“You really doin’ this,” Tim mumbled--a question for himself or Raylan, he wasn’t at all certain. 

Raylan, ever self-possessed, believed the remark to be directed at him. “Oh yes,” he drawled teasingly. “I’m in it now.”

His still-packed duffel was at the foot of his bed. He opened it and started rummaging around unwashed shirts and unworn socks. 

“Yvonne get home okay?” Tim asked stiffly. If there was any decorum to be salvaged, Tim would breathe life into it himself.

“Yup,” Raylan said, registering Tim’s humiliation but as of yet undecided on how to proceed. “Nice kids. Kelly can’t hold her liquor for shit. Thanks for the heads up.”

“Early night,” Tim observed. Knowing Yvonne and her friends, he’d wagered for an hour or two more than what Raylan had managed. 

While rustling through his things, Raylan shrugged a shoulder. He looked poised to say _Winona_ , with his lips open and ‘o’ shaped, cheeks drawn in with breath, but settled only for shrugging. Tim could hazard a guess that a tiny sliver of guilt had managed to pierce Raylan’s Hindenburg-sized ego.

“Can’t really compare a night out with college girls and a night in with a crying baby,” Tim said. It was a little mean spirited, but he was smarting from being the leading player in Raylan’s window into his life. Worse still, Tim had invited all of this upon himself. 

“Nope,” Raylan concurred with a tight smile. “But you know,” he paused, producing a small bottle of lotion from his attache case and smirking triumphantly. “I really missed this.” 

Tim took in a heavy breath and said nothing. He stuck out his hand, expectant.

Raylan’s smirk waned. “It’s just, uh, lotion. Will that do ya?”

Raylan hadn’t planned for that exact word choice, but all his smirks and verbal pokes at Tim already had the younger Marshal on edge. Tim rolled his eyes and said tiredly, like he was reciting for Raylan some childish password, “Yep, that’ll do me.”

“That ain’t the same fella,” Raylan observed absently, because the thought had taken the long route in jogging his memory. He’d drunk some, admittedly, and between meager hours of sleep for the past two weeks and one wild night out, Raylan wasn’t in any position to curb his commentary. 

“No, you scared him away. I had use the spare I keep in the basement.” Tim gestured with the bottle. “I’ll get this back to you.”

“Consider it a gift,” Raylan said.

Tim pretended to look affronted. “I could never,” he assured, hand over his heart. He disappeared into his bedroom and closed the door, leaving Raylan to finally retreat to his own bed for uninterrupted sleep. 

If Tim and the fella were purposefully quiet--or, hell, knowing Tim’s humor, purposefully loud--Raylan didn’t know it. He slept soundly until nearly noon, then left his bed feeling well-rested. It was a sense of being warm and settled, something he had never really managed in his extended-stay hotel suite.

He hadn’t noticed it last he’d laid down, but Tim had washed his sheets. All the more reason to give him shit, Raylan supposed. 

Raylan got dressed, still intending to spend a few hours at the office before Monday morning caught up to him. 

In the kitchen, Tim kept his back to Raylan. Not intentionally; he was standing over the stove, attending to a grilled cheese sandwich with a half-melted spatula and a blue oven mitt to accommodate the panhandle. The plastic covering had somehow been stripped away, leaving only a jagged metal core. Raylan recognized the pan; it was something from his old home, thrown in with the silverware.

“What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” 

Raylan sat at one of the stools tucked under the counter, and from there was still able to reach for a mug and pour himself a cup of lukewarm coffee. Tim didn’t respond to his teasing greeting, although he did roll his shoulders like he was suddenly physically uncomfortable. Or he was just showing off. Tim’s muscular back was visible through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and stretching out the short sleeves were Tim’s needlessly obscene biceps. Raylan rolled his eyes; because he was a little slow at it, Tim spent more time than anyone at his computer, or filing, or fielding calls. Unless the telephone receiver was weighted, there was no earthly reason for the girth of Tim’s arms to exceed that of a #2 pencil. 

Raylan sipped his coffee idly, half reading the newspaper Tim had left on the countertop, half watching Tim tidy up.

“I was gonna ask how the last two weeks have been,” Raylan began again as Tim started in on his meal, “but I guess last night about catches us up.”

The sandwich was relocated to a napkin on the counter, and Tim took up his half-empty beer, instead.

“You can ask,” Tim said, his cloudy blue eyes meeting Raylan’s. “Me ‘n Rachel have been covering your ass, pulling your hours, and closing your cases. It’s not as hard as all your whining makes it out to be.” Tim’s response was so concise, so definite that Raylan knew immediately it had been something he’d prepared--meaning, he’d lost sleep over the eventual exchange. 

Tim took another swig of beer and stared at his sandwich. “Excuse me for taking an evening for myself.”

Raylan couldn’t let that one go. “A nice evening, sure,” he gave an unassuming smile. “I understand that. Just you. And some guy. And some other guy.”

Tim set his beer on the table, then spoke in a tone so unfazed it was unnerving. “It warms my heart to know you feel so at home here that you can sit in my kitchen, drink my coffee, and insult me.” 

The comment was so coolly delivered that Raylan thought there was a threat buried in it, somewhere. 

Or maybe he’d just said it openly, suggesting that Raylan ought to take his leave. Raylan frowned and said coolly, “It’s a joke, Tim.”

Tim accompanied his dull monotone with put-upon smile. “Oh, okay. Must be one of those jokes you hear enough, it just ain’t funny anymore. Hey, I got one. Knock-knock.”

Raylan had to _work_ not to grit his teeth. “Who’s there?”

“Real estate market.”

Raylan didn’t bother to ask _real-estate-market-who?_ He’d heard the joke before; the punchline was one and done.

Although it hadn’t crossed his mind before, Raylan worried he’d finally crossed a line, embarrassed Tim--or Tim had embarrassed himself--and the damage was unmanageable. It was half past noon on a Sunday; Tim wasn’t about to order another tension-diffusing pizza. 

“What do you want me to do, Tim. I was surprised. It ain’t often there’s a naked fella in the bathroom.”

Tim frowned. “How do _you_ take a shower?”

“Keep that excuse for next time,” Raylan advised. Tim heard the comment for what it was: little more than a taunt.

“I don’t need an excuse,” Tim said curtly. Then, very quietly he took in a breath, believing himself to be heading down an aimless path. He redirected, adopted a weak smile and a light touch. In the gravelly, disinterested voice that put his listeners at ease, Tim joked, “Besides, if I just have men over to shower, when am I gonna get to fuckin’ any of them?”

“You do this on purpose,” Raylan shot back--not unkindly, but with a confidence that he didn’t wear well. He didn’t provide the huff of laughter of shake of the head Tim had hoped for; Raylan wasn’t done making his case, besting Tim where he thought the younger Marshal was decidedly wrong. “You say shit and then get mad at me for doing the same. I won’t talk about it, but I can’t _not see it_ if you’re bringin’ ‘em home sometimes. Certainly can’t unsee that…” 

He waved a hand. 

_What,_ Tim wanted to ask. _Can’t unsee a tight ass? The horror, the horror._

But it was just more of the same, more of the language that had put Tim into the good graces of others, but didn’t seem to be working on Raylan. Tim wasn’t certain how much longer he could stand tiptoeing around his own home, habits, and proclivities. 

It wasn’t like Tim had imagined when Rachel posited the idea; that is, an extended work-environment where he was occupied and hardly spared Raylan a second thought. In his home, where Tim was alone with his thoughts and his ever-present desire to trample them flat, he couldn’t touch a bottle or relax without spinning a mental spiderweb of doubt, all threads leading to one breaking point: _Raylan._ Would he see? Say something? File it away for later use?

In short, Tim hadn’t properly gauged the effort it took to be aware of another person circling his home. He was growing tired of the ordeal, and the subsequent stress was finally starting to show.

Tim put his empty bottle in the bin, retrieved a second cold beer from the fridge, and took his sandwich for a sit-down on the deck. He returned for the paperback novel he’d left on the couch and fixed Raylan with an emotionless stare and shared the last of what he hoped to say on the matter. 

“I said before if it bothered you, you could leave. Now I’m telling you.”

Raylan had never seen anyone turn pages of a book so angrily. 

\- 

Things were quiet after that, especially at the office. Despite being sat next to one another, they were distant. Tim, who Raylan used to catch staring at him for his own amusement, never allowed his focus to wander far from his computer screen or open case files. Alternatively, Raylan kept his eye on Harlan and used any excuse to head down there and make a late evening return. 

At home, Tim continued to present his ultimatum: if there was a problem, it was Raylan’s, not Tim’s. Tim neither retreated to his bedroom nor sought out a new space to occupy. He used the living room same as he always did, eyes pinned on a book or a screen, a drink never far from his hand. Initially, Raylan understood it as Tim’s way of saying, _I will do whatever the fuck I want. See? I’m right here, motherfucker, reading fictionalized Native American lore_ , until days passed and it became clear what was missing. Because Tim wasn’t going out or bringing men home, Raylan knew his comments had embarrassed Tim and caused him to curtail his behavior. 

Tim--or his libido--recognized this, too, and eventually he returned to his habit of cigarettes and late nights. 

Raylan, even in saying nary a word about it, still felt guilty. _Which was not the shit he signed up for, moving in with a junior Marshal._ Any other Marshal, the worst Raylan might have expected was some shameless networking, a few dropped hints about wanting an assignment someplace warm and sunny, where even the lowlifes had a little class. Tim didn’t seem to view Raylan’s presence as anything less than a challenge.

Deciding one evening of mishaps wasn't worth all the effort put towards alternatively ignoring one another and showboating, Raylan moved to end it. For his part, this was because Raylan had never waited three days for a shot and knew when he was outmatched. Breaking on his own terms, Raylan thought to cure the silent standoff by making the first move--a concession, sure, but Raylan figured that, because he intended to ask a favor, he’d still come out the victor. 

Tim had taken off early from work--following a lead, maybe, Raylan hadn’t been of a mind to ask at the time. He sent a brief text.

_Need a favor. Accepting crushing defeat to ask for it._

A few minutes later, Tim issued a reply: _Failure accepted._ He followed it with, _But you’re out of luck. I’m in Tennessee. SOG op._

_Anything interesting?_

_It ain’t Winona holding up a Babies R Us, so no._

Raylan left it there, figuring for better or for ill, neither was meant to make amends for what had been the natural turn of stress and simple proximity. If Raylan hadn’t gotten smart with Tim, it would have been Winona a week later. Words, really, were their greatest obstacle--which seemed counterintuitive. Raylan was expert with a turn of phrase, and Tim held his own. He didn’t mince his meaning, at any rate. Raylan gathered that much from his final text that evening:

_Feed Tom Hanks or ur an asshole._


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hate the last chapter. It’s awkward and needlessly long and doesn’t add anything to the story (LOL WHAT STORY). I may delete or overhaul it at some point. UNTIL THEN, this chapter.

Over his threadbare shirt, Raylan pulled on a denim jacket. 

This, coupled with his jeans, boots, and shirt (a muted green color, buttons open at the throat), completed the costume. It was not his usually work wears, but Raylan wasn’t anticipating a day at the office. 

It had been almost two months since Raylan found a reason to go down to Harlan, and even then it had been a bust. He’d waited, accumulated bits of information by word of mouth to mount a kind of defense for his venture. Art didn’t grant the endeavor as much thought as Raylan had; he was sat behind his desk when Raylan brought the matter up in the doorway, strategically placing himself “halfway out the door” with presumed permission. Even when Art granted it, it was like an afterthought.

Time away from the place or not, Raylan knew the dance like it had been taught along with his ABCs. In Harlan, you didn’t wear a suit jacket. If you owned one, chances were it spent some time in an open casket viewing. Maybe you’d air it out at a court hearing before it next went in a pine box. 

Raylan scratched at his exposed throat. The only thing genuine about him, really, was the hat. 

He stepped out of his bedroom to find that Tom Hanks had curled next to his door, lonely without Tim for the evening. Raylan went to take a piss and upon finishing, found that Tim had returned. 

Tim breezed through the front door, then dropped a number of things--including his rifle bag and sidearm--on the kitchen table. He tossed the morning paper onto the counter, and was already stripping himself of his two-day old clothes before he’d even opened his bedroom door. 

Tim was sat on the couch in sweats, favoring Tom Hanks with affectionate pats when Raylan first saw him. 

“There’s fried chicken and Sun Drop soda in the fridge,” Tim said by way of a greeting, as though joining the SOG unit for an op in Tennessee had only been a side-trip from his real effort of getting a taste of the local fare. 

“I love it when you bring me things,” Raylan smirked, knowing that _Help yourself_ was implied.

“I should kill people more often,” Tim agreed. 

“In all 50 states,” Raylan said. “You could collect spoons.” 

Raylan watched as Tim yawned and settled deeper against the couch. Dark sweeps of purple hung under his eyes and Raylan supposed Tim was a little out of practice; what was 24 hours watching a target when he used to pull stints three times as long? 

“Art giving you the day?” Raylan asked, fetching a piece of chicken from the fridge. He didn’t mind it cold, and sunk his teeth into his fever-hot skin. 

“Yep,” Tim answered. His eyes were glued to an episode of _The Joy of Painting_ on pbs, and his hand was steadily sweeping over Tom Hanks’ curled form in his lap. 

“So you’d have time to do me that favor, then.”

Tim’s focus didn’t waver. “After I’ve come to grips with the realities of taking a human life. And when I’m done watching this.” 

“You willing to come down to Harlan with me? Nothing too strenuous, but I could use the illusion of muscle.” Tim gave him a smart look, there. Raylan added, “I’ll drive.”

“You’re goddamn right you will.” Tim scrubbed a hand over his face, tired. Raylan even thought for a moment that Tim would refuse. “Yeah, okay. Give me five minutes.” He moved from the couch, disturbing an angry Tom Hanks. Raylan took his place.

True to his word, Tim showered and changed into clean clothes in only a scant few minutes. Raylan was on his third piece of chicken, and fairly invested in the progress Bob Ross was making with his mountain landscape. Without a word of protest or derision, Tim sat and the two finished the episode in silence. 

“Am I gonna be on the sidelines again?” Tim asked, taking a piece of chicken for himself. 

“Do you need to bring a book?” Raylan deciphered. “No. Shouldn’t think so.”

“Do I need to bring a rifle?”

“If I said yes, and extra rounds, you would, wouldn’t you?”

“Can’t be unprepared.” 

“No,” Raylan finally dropped the inquisition and answered Tim plainly. “Just your sidearm will do.” 

“Crowder?” Tim asked, curious as to why Raylan believed he needed backup, but no firepower.

“Not if we can help it. I’m tryin’ for these Detroit guys, though if he’s got his wits about him, Boyd’ll have done the smart thing and saddled up with them, anyway.” Raylan busied himself with a piece of chicken, using the seared meat like a smokescreen for any truer meaning. “They got eyes on Kentucky, and the finances to pull something out.”

“Thought that was what Quarles was for.” Tim thought a minute and called on a fuzzy detail from more recent reports he’d read, knowing Raylan--by some way or another--had better insight. “And Nicky Augustine, for that matter.”

“Eh,” Raylan dismissed, waving a drumstick. “That was all loose ends, Drew Thompson shit.”

Tim remained doubtful. 

Apparently, this showed on his face because Raylan felt prompted to add, “It ain’t what you’re thinking. Gary 2.0.” 

“Well I wasn’t thinking you killed Nicky Augustine. I sure as shit do now, though.” 

Raylan made a sound like he’d had enough of Tim’s antics. Tim didn’t think pressing to know whether or not his fellow Marshal had killed a Detroit thug existed in the realm of _antics._

But Tim was above refusing to aid Raylan unless he was given answers. He grabbed his coat, secured his firearm, and followed Raylan out the door.

“So it’s not like Gary’s death,” Tim said conversationally as they approached Raylan’s Lincoln. 

“No,” Raylan agreed.

“And you had no part in Gary’s death,” Tim continued, driving straight to his point that whatever happened to Nicky Augustine hadn’t escaped Raylan’s knowledge--or tacit permission. 

Raylan stared at Tim over the hood of the car. “You’re wasted playin’ shooter for SOG,” he said flatly.

Tim quirked a strange little smile. “High praise.” 

In the car, Tim cosied up to the window and rested the side of his head against the glass. A beam of light caught the side of his face, but he closed his eyes to it. The way Raylan started up the car and sped out of the driveway disturbed Tim’s respite. He opened one eye, annoyed. 

“We all kill guys, Raylan. It don’t got to be some big secret.”

Raylan couldn’t tell whether or not Tim was speaking to the Colton Rhodes situation, or his most recent SOG op. The circumstances of Nicky Augustine’s death were still something Raylan wasn’t up to sharing with Tim, let alone the world they occupied. It was a picture painted entirely in grays, and that never played well for Raylan in the Marshal Offices, try though he might to imagine himself in the same stark contrast evident in every facet of his line of work--the black and white, actions not intentions.

Boyd knew, of course. 

Setting a man up to be gunned down by his own people--what was more Harlan than that?

Tim more-or-less slept the whole way. Every time Raylan hit a bump, Tim’s eyes would flutter open, take in the scene, and then shut once more. It was kind of peaceful, and for as long as it lasted before flickering out, the radio provided a soothing country tune. 

Tim snored softly against the car window. His hair--washed, but not fixed back with gel--dropped over his face. He’d brought a cap and tossed it onto the dashboard. It sat there still, soaking up the sunlight. Raylan didn’t know another living soul who looked as menacing as Tim managed in a baseball cap. 

It struck Raylan, then, that he’d never actually made this trip with Tim. Certainly, Tim had become familiar with Harlan, but it was usually the case that he met Raylan there by having the wherewithal to know any grand plan of Raylan’s didn’t often run without a hitch.

It so happened that their first joint venture was all well and good--a little snooping, a lot of cheap intimidation--until it wasn’t. 

Sufficient to say, Tim wasn’t doing any catnapping on the return leg. 

_Fine choice of words,_ Raylan mused, his attention split between Tim and the road back to Lexington.

Raylan’s whole purpose for going down to Harlan was to scope out any potential movement by Detroit into the area. For the better part of the morning, that was the case. Raylan and Tim hit up prostitutes for word on any new clients, then followed up those responses more expository than _fuck you or pay and fuck me_. On their merry chase, they caught sight of a winnebago pulling away from a stretch of bars and heading towards the interstate. Seeing Boyd Crowder standing in its dusty wake wasn’t just coincidence. 

“Fuckin’ typical,” Tim ground out for the hundreth time. He’d done little else but swear and prod at the his own bullet wound.

“It’s minor,” Raylan snapped, growing frustrated with Tim’s attitude. “You said so yourself.”

“I don’t even get hazard pay,” Tim said, bouncing his head against the headrest and sighing. 

“You’ve got one more chance for a hospital before we hit the interstate.” 

It was an incredible shot, just glancing Tim’s leg as Boyd’s latest hire tried to sheath his handgun in the waist of his jeans. Tim pulled his own firearm as soon as the shot rang out, and only after a moment’s confusion realized he’d been hit.

 _“You’re lucky I don’t shoot off your fucking dick,”_ Tim had growled, pressing his own shooter’s balled-up jacket to the gash while keeping careful--and undue--pressure on the spread of fleshy groin and hip above the wound. 

_“Hell!”_ Boyd had cackled in turn. _“He’s lucky he didn’t do that himself.”_

“I don’t need a hospital,” Tim said to Raylan now, just as he had insisted while trying not to hobble so visibly off Crowder’s property.

Raylan’s phone began to ring. He answered it, listened for a spell, then let the voice carry on as he took a moment to laugh. 

Tim glared at him. “I’m sorry, did I miss the part where this is funny?”

“Boyd’s guy wants to apologize. Says he’s never handled a firearm before.”

“You’re kidding,” Tim breathed, sarcasm coating his every word. 

Raylan listened a while more and stage-whispered to Tim, “He’s afraid you’re gonna come back and put a bullet between his eyes.” 

_“I’ll hammer it in,”_ Tim said, projecting loud enough for his message to be heard in Harlan--with or without the advent of Raylan’s cell phone. 

Putting a nicer spin on things, Raylan translated, “Tim agrees it was an accident.” 

Tim spent the rest of the drive silent, staring out at the spread trees topped with red, orange, and yellow leaves. Green still made a valiant effort to cling nearest to the core of the tree, but the damage was done. Harlan was bringing fall to Kentucky. 

Tim peeled away the sodden jacket and studied his leg. It really wasn’t worth all his whining, but knowing he could have been at home, asleep or watching daytime television instead of catching a stray bullet on some stupid errand of Raylan’s made the ugly wound throb all the greater. 

It was absurd. _Raylan_ and his whole hillbilly alter ego was absurd. And Tim couldn’t spare another second wondering why it was he felt compelled to play Raylan’s game, allow him to indulge in this bizarre fantasy. Certainly, the hole in Tim’s leg was a reality, but everything else… poking around Harlan, chasing winnebagos, doing the verbal tango with Crowder… 

Tim glanced at Raylan, who had one arm draped over the steering wheel and the other hand on his phone, sending a text. His attention, too, was clearly on the latter. 

Although it hurt to put weight on his side, Tim leaned over to the drivers side and snatched away Raylan’s phone. In exchange, he delivered a dirty look. 

Still holding Raylan’s phone, Tim pitted his elbow against the window and the leather interior. It was the furthest he could keep the gadget from Raylan, and for extra protection he rested his chin in his open palm. If Raylan tried to make a grab for it, Tim would sooner break Raylan’s fingers than return his phone. 

Every time it buzzed, Tim wanted to hurl it out the window. 

Raylan’s windows had powerlock, though. _Fucker._

It so happened that having Raylan’s phone buzz in his hand was more obnoxious than Raylan driving with it. Tim tossed the thing into the back seat. Raylan, of course, just surrendered the steering wheel to Tim and turned around in his seat to grapple for it. 

Tim’s steadying hand left the steering wheel bloody, and Raylan had the gall to _scowl_ at him.

Tim sighed, remorseful in more ways than one. “I just don’t fuckin’ learn.” 

-

At home, Tim cleaned and dressed the wound himself. It was a little more than just a graze--it was a gash. Tim supposed he’d been a little presumptuous refusing a trip to the hospital, having failed to notice that blood seeping out of his body _usually_ wasn’t just for show. Still, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Tim was lucky, but more than that he was pissed. 

“You’re gonna be walking funny for a while,” Raylan observed, none too helpfully. He’d hung around the kitchen, watching through the open bathroom door as Tim wriggled out of his jeans and saw to the ugly matter just below the hem of his boxers on his left side. “What are you going to tell Art?”

Tim gave a soft snort of derision; good to know Raylan kept his priorities in line. 

“That I’ve got a new boyfriend,” Tim intoned, dry as the desert. 

Raylan laughed at that--hard, sincere, and necessary. He laughed until his chest ached and he felt lightheaded. It was a combination of things, really--mostly stress originating with Winona, the baby, his promotion, Harlan, the nefarious doings of Boyd Crowder, and Tim. The top five were hardly a surprise, save for the order. For the better part of the last year, they all seemed bundled into one searing headache. The notion that Tim hadn’t gained his spot by sheer proximity was the real surprise for Raylan. For a while now, Tim had been creeping into his line of sight, manifesting as a potential problem. Raylan had long decided that thinking in such terms was necessary when your co-workers--as well as your adversaries--are armed and dangerous. 

“Sorry,” Raylan heard himself saying. He was still grinning like an idiot and made for quite a sight. “Tim, I’m sorry. This sucks. You… you gotta be pissed.”

“It did occur to me,” Tim hummed, then walked uneasily to the couch and settled there. His leg didn’t itch or throb unnecessarily, so he believed himself to be in the clear. Mostly, he just felt the same exhaustion carried over from that morning. He turned on the television and found a _Planet Earth_ marathon. While the visuals were stunning, the commentary would put him to sleep. Tim smiled faintly, wanting nothing more.

Raylan, of course, couldn’t help but try Tim’s patience just a while longer still--like he saw Tim like this and thought, _yes._ Primed and ready.

“Since you brought it up, the guy who makes my coffee is a strapping young fellow.” Raylan meant to say the guy was funny and conventionally good-looking and always gave Raylan extra shots or a bigger coffee on the sly. All good qualities, equally difficult to render in more accessible terms. 

Tim didn’t miss a beat, offering dully, “He’s gotta be, lifting those paper cups all day.”

Raylan’s gaze briefly flicked to Tim, then settled on the television. “You should ask him out.” 

_What,_ Tim thought, wondering if he was experiencing some kind of auditory hallucination brought on by shock. _Fucking what._

“Hell of a time to be asking favors. I’m not quite recovered from your last.”

“This is a favor for _you_ , man.” As if to punctuate his point, Raylan disappeared into the kitchen to collect beers for himself and Tim. 

“Because it’d do me a world of good if you got free coffees,” Tim puzzled, accepting the bottle. 

Raylan brushed cat hair off the seat, then took the recliner. “He seems nice. I’ll put a good word in.” 

There was such an easy confidence to Raylan’s proclamation that Tim couldn’t confuse it for a joke, which left him in a strange position. 

“Don’t,” he said firmly. It may have been the first word he’d spoken to Raylan that wasn’t cloaked in derision, sarcasm, or the breathy stink of a few too many drinks. 

It was as sincere as Tim could manage, yet it flew completely under his fellow Marshal’s radar. Raylan laughed, “Son, I know you ain’t celibate.” 

“Raylan,” Tim wet his lips, paused the television, and looked the other man dead in the eyes. “Everything you’re sayin’ and doin’? Stop.” _Stop being an asshole, stop being… accommodating._ “I don’t want your input. Whatever you thought before movin’ in, go back to that.”

Raylan blinked in surprise. Tim hadn’t asked much of him-- _anything,_ really--in the number of months they quietly processed together. Answering truthfully, he said, “I thought you just weren’t getting any.”

Tim grimaced, affronted. “Well that was a gross underestimate.”

“Don’t I know it,” Raylan said with a wry grin. 

Tim tucked an arm behind his head and rested both on the side of the couch. Turning some, he could bury his nose in the corner forged by his upper arm. Tim often slept this way, and liked it--the stink of his own armpit, the natural cover. 

“You get what you wanted, at least?” Tim asked, shifting slowly so as not to disturb his leg. “While I was bleeding out in your car. Boyd tell you anything?” 

Raylan finished his beer. “He said we might see trouble.”

“What’s his definition of trouble?”

“A lot looser than mine.” 

Tim stretched out to lay claim to the entire couch, where he’d listen to the television for a while longer and finally, _finally_ get a few hours of much-needed sleep. 

Raylan took no notice of this, and started up again: “I’m willing to wager you getting dinged may quiet things down. There’s no story to it, but word gets around a U.S. Marshal got shot, people will likely temper their affairs for a spell.”

“Always glad to be of value,” Tim said, closing his eyes and not giving a fuck. 

\- 

Much of what Raylan expected for Harlan mirrored back in Lexington; things went quiet. Tim’s leg healed, due to--or in spite of--Art’s insistence that laughter really is the best medicine. Tim and Raylan had given some weak explanation (a mumbled, _Harlan_ ) that Art patently ignored in favor of dreaming up wilder causes for Tim’s limp--flesh-eating virus, an over-excited Marshal Stiffy, ‘Nam.

Better still, Raylan was too busy with his own crumbling private life to take any note of Tim’s. 

By denying Raylan any weekend invitations, Winona was doing her level best to prepare for life without him. Her own words--and by god, it was difficult to live by them. It hurt Raylan, some, too, but he was wise enough to see her point. Thing was, Winona was resourceful. If it was in her heart to carry on her whole life long, just her and Janette, doing so was well within her reach. 

But her and Raylan's lives were destined to crash into one another; it kept happening, for as often as it didn't stick. All Winona really wanted with her time away from Raylan was the means of navigating, maybe easing that next crash. 

On Raylan's end, it meant he wasn't getting as much time in as he’d like with Winona and his daughter, and was left in turn with many aimless evenings and weekends at Tim's. Wandering into the living room after again hearing from Winona that she’d prefer another weekend alone, _(but thank you, really, and I’ve noted your interest in our child’s life with a star on the Good Dad/Bad Dad chart)_ Raylan was ready for a night kicking Tim’s ass at Mario Kart. He figured Tim would be up for it, because in the absence of Raylan’s influence, Tim lived a quiet life.

Bars hopping was something Tim did later in the evening, giving him a good five hours every day to either stay late at work, or return home to a stretch of time silently watching movies or reading books. Raylan suspected he’d stroll into the living room and disturb Tim in one of these exact activities. 

Instead, Raylan saw the man dressed nice and neat like he was going to work. He wore a blue-and-white-striped short-sleeved shirt that looked like it came out of the youth section in a shop, but fit over a chest and arms that said otherwise. He was palming the couch cushions in search of his wallet. 

“You got a date?” Raylan asked, taking a seat and disturbing Tim’s search.

“Naw,” Tim answered, distracted. He’d moved on to checking the pockets of a jacket laid over a chair at his small kitchen table. “Just going to a bar.”

Raylan perked up at that. “A drink sounds good. I’ll join ya.”

Tim’s mind went racing for an excuse. “Yeah--uh.”

Tim’s mind hit a brick wall.

“It is a date,” Raylan goaded, feeling triumphant.

“No,” Tim insisted shortly. “But it’s a gay bar.” He grinned faintly, feeling a little triumphant, himself. “Invitation stills stands.”

\- 

“This is... a _very_ gay bar.” 

Raylan followed Tim through throngs of men--some open-faced and talking, flirting, visiting. Others ducked their heads like they feared being recognized at any turn. Incomprehensible music pulsated through bodies, the floor, the air. The place was mostly dim, save for the odd stream of light, illuminating the patrons like a lightening flash. For as much as Raylan had the place pegged for a younger crowd, he’d spot a group of men downright dower in their long-sleeved dress shirts and slacks, fresh out of the office, rolling their eyes at the antics of a younger generation. 

Raylan wondered where Tim was leading them, if not to the adult’s table.

“You don’t gotta stay,” Tim said, pulling a few bills from his wallet and leaning over the bar with them. “Take the car, I can get a ride.” 

“Confident, aren’t we?” Raylan accepted the beer Tim handed him. “Naw, this looks fun.” 

Tim accosted him with a flat look. _For who?_ While the prospect had amused him during the drive (Tim spent it spinning stories and making up a litany of seemingly innocuous coded gestures for which Raylan to be wary), the reality was that Tim had saddled himself with a tourist. 

Wide-eyed and curious--but at least he’d left his stupid hat in the car.

Raylan noticed the distinct lack of women. He didn’t know quite what he was expecting--a half-empty room, maybe, to reason away the absence of the fairer sex. Instead, the place was crowded and so warm that Raylan immediately shed his jacket. Tim kept his on, but then again he always did that, always silently claiming to be cold. 

“Buddy of mine is in the show,” Tim said over his shoulder as he and Raylan ventured from the bar towards what looked like a small stage. Tim took them down a partitioned space--almost a hallway--to avoid the crowded dancefloor. While less crowded, the hall was something of a tight squeeze. 

Raylan rounded a young couple kissing frantically and was reminded of his highschool years. 

"That so?”

They broke from the hall and happened upon a stretch of small tables and seating between the dancefloor and stage. 

“Yep,” Tim answered. “He’s the 6’3” Mother Mary. Ya can’t miss ‘em.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Raylan said. Presently, the stage was occupied by a slender, fresh-faced drag queen crooning out a rendition of Etta James' "At Last."

Raylan looked to Tim, expecting to share an amused smirk.

It shouldn't have come as a shock to Raylan that Tim, as in all things, was coolly quiet and studious. Nothing seemed to rile him--not an armed fugitive, let alone a drag queen. A thought struck Raylan, then, and he surprised himself by taking a long, appraising look at Tim. "You get into... this?”

“I ain’t got the figure for it,” Tim dismissed dryly, setting down his drink and claiming a small table in the process. Raylan took the seat next to Tim. They had a good view of the stage, but the table was pocketed away--hidden, even, without the advent of the dancing and pulsating spotlights. Only the odd stream of pink or white light came careening in over Raylan’s shoulder. 

Raylan found himself people watching and enjoying his beer, although he couldn’t say he enjoyed the music. He glanced at Tim, still half-expecting to see his amusement mirrored in the younger Marshal's face.

Tim was staring at his watch, bored. 

“You don’t come here often,” Raylan observed.

“Nope.” 

Tim was of a mind to elaborate, _“No, Raylan. I go to your kind of bars.”_ Tim liked them quiet and smokey and stocked with assholes men away their shitty work days. A place where he could hole away into a corner, where such monstrosities as _dancefloors_ didn’t exist, and if he’s lucky enough to acquire a target, it’s usually someone playing the same game. No muss, no fuss. 

Tim raised and dropped a shoulder, instead. “But Hank’s in town and I told him I’d come, so.” 

“Your buddy,” Raylan gathered.

Tim nodded. “Another Ranger.” He finished his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “It ain’t hard to sniff out your own.” 

It was one of those things Tim said that Raylan wasn’t meant to reply to; not that Tim had explicitly made this clear, but Raylan instinctively knew better than to engage with such commentary. He only nodded briefly, a simple indication that he was listening. 

“Bathroom?” Raylan asked, after a time. 

“The direct approach,” Tim observed. “Afraid I’ll have to pass. I appreciate a little more romance, you know?”

“Funny,” Raylan allowed, recognizing that Tim was playing with him. 

Tim hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Play nice with the other boys.” 

Upon Raylan's return (“Uneventful,” Raylan reported back.), Tim stood from the table. 

“I’ma get another beer. You want?” 

With that, Raylan decided to think less about Tim, whatever his problems were, and just enjoy the fact that he was buying the rounds. 

Tim departed the table with Raylan’s order and a warning that carried with it a sharp little smile that played at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t talk to any strangers.” 

Tim returned to find his chair occupied by a young kid with whom Raylan--beautiful, stupid Raylan--was being his usual charming self. The kid was probably still in college, but from what Tim had heard, Raylan didn’t mind them young. At any rate, the kid was curly-haired, sweet-faced, and clearly didn’t lack the confidence to approach older men in bars. 

Or he was curly-haired, sweet-faced, and _stupid._ Tim withheld his judgment. 

“ _He’s_ talking to _me,_ ” Raylan said in his defense. He was smiling, too, which set Tim on edge. Whatever Raylan was into fucking, it wasn't this kid. Tim felt he didn't have the right to joke around like he was. It was easier to make an example of the kid, however, than of Raylan.

“Scram,” Tim said, if only because he would not be forced to stand at the table holding two beers and not drinking either of them. 

One odd look from Raylan to Tim already had the kid taking his leave. He retreated wide-eyed and in the direction of his group of friends. 

His face painted with a confused frown, Raylan watched the kid go. "Does he think I’m your boyfriend?” Raylan asked, a hand clapped on Tim’s forearm to stay the younger Marshal from taking his first sip, “ _Or your father?_ ” 

Tim tugged his arm away. “Dad, you’re hurting me.” 

Raylan gave a sigh; he’d lived enough of his life in bars that a _father_ was the last thing he wanted to be mistaken for. 

“This place is weird,” Raylan grumbled into his second beer. 

“I thought you said it looked fun.” Pointedly throwing Raylan’s words back at him might have been the highlight of Tim’s night, if only because it got decidedly worse from there. 

A drink landed at Raylan’s side of the table. The server who brought it by was palmed a tip from the kid who’d been chatting Raylan up. 

“Well, hell,” Raylan grinned. Tim shared the sentiment, minus the amusement. Raylan turned in his chair and toasted the kid and his friends, who were smiling brightly. 

Tim suffered through Raylan’s good fortune a while longer, until the vintage bulbs around the small stage crackled and erupted with light. Tim saw a _third_ drink grace Raylan’s hand, and elbowed him. Some of the drink sloshed out of its glass and Tim was absurdly glad for it. “We can leave after this.” 

“Everyone here is so much nicer than you, Tim,” Raylan said, squinting at Tim like he could just barely make him out. “Why is that?”

Tim set his sights firmly on the stage. “Because nobody else has to go home with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: the morning after.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A faster, bigger update because I had hacked 2,000 words from the last chapter for this one. Many thanks to my Tumblr pals for listening to me whine about EVERYTHING as I wrote this.

Raylan awoke feeling every drink he’d had the night before, although he couldn’t remember half of them. His forehead felt like it had swallowed an ostrich egg. Someone had plied him with drinks--not Tim, who Raylan knew he wasn’t in the favor of for his drunken showboating. Rather, someone with deep pockets or his mom’s credit card. Or, more likely, multiple someones. 

Raylan preferred that idea to the notion that he’d gotten drunk on shots purchased with a University of Kentucky chemistry major’s financial aid.

He twisted, unable to find freedom from his bedsheets. Raylan huffed out a groan that rung his head like the Liberty Bell; a _lot_ of someones had sent him drinks, and Raylan vaguely remembered the attention eventually striking a nerve with Tim, who started swiping up and downing shots before Raylan could lay claim on them.

 _“They’re only into you because they think you’re taken,”_ Tim had told Raylan mindfully when the cowboy seemed a little too pleased with his haul. 

Raylan was both a little too pleased and a little too plastered to heed the warning embedded in Tim’s curt tone. _“So put your hands on me, and get us more beers.”_

Tim had kept his hands to himself, but the drinks arrived in due time.

Eventually, Raylan twisted fully out of bed just after six in the morning, needing very badly to piss. In his hangover-induced-haze, he padded out of his bedroom and crossed the living space. He spared a few crust-cornered blinks of his eyes before placing the difference in the area that first slowed his steps: Tim’s bedroom door was open, which it never was. Sure, sometimes Tom Hanks took to following Tim around, and Tim would leave his door cracked as a courtesy, but Raylan had come to believe the door didn’t even swing fully on its hinges.

Now, it was swung carelessly wide. 

Positioned like a picture in the fully open doorframe, Raylan saw Tim in bed with a man, asleep and curled and naked. They were both a landscape of flesh; a chunk taken out of Tim, and a spray of scars littering his partner, lily white with time but raised and visible enough to tell the story of their being. These accidental tattoos mixed with intentional ones; where the ink on Tim’s chest was crude and dark, the other man’s was colorful and expertly applied. 

Tim had lost his single pillow to his bedfellow, but nonetheless slept soundly with his head nested into the donut of his folded arms. A bigger, meatier arm was strewn across his back, a hand planted possessively on Tim’s sheet-covered left ass cheek. 

In a brief resurgence of what Raylan believed to be his sparkling wit, he figured _this_ was the pounding in his hangover, last night. 

After finally lumbering into the bathroom, Raylan found the much-needed, glorious golden stream of relief was eluding him. Rather than strangle his dick into compliance, he sat at Tim’s tiny kitchen table, drank half a gallon of orange juice with a little hair of the dog, and waited to jog something loose. 

After a few aimless minutes, Raylan brought in the newspaper. He was halfway through a sorry sports story (sorry, from when he could tell of the accompanying photograph. Raylan wasn't up for doing much reading.) when a pair of voices jarred his quiet little morning.

“Nope, nope, nope,” Raylan heard one man-- _not Tim_ \--groan. Raylan narrowed his focus on his newspaper, willing himself not to eavesdrop. If he made for his bedroom, he'd be spotted through the open doorway. 

And, hell. He still really needed to piss. 

“Gotta get up.” Tim. Tired Tim, sounding for all the world like he’s just spat out a mouthful of sand and grit. 

“No, man. Stay.” The other voice was wet and loose, sweet-sounding. Raylan figured the speaker for a man who often got his way. 

It sounded a bit like his own voice, really. 

Tim wasn’t having either. “Six-thirty, man. The day awaits.”

“Fuck the day.” The voice-- _Hank,_ Raylan figured, although all introductions had been a bit of a blur to him last night--gave an exaggerated sigh. “Better yet, fuck me.”

“You smell like eggs,” Tim rebutted--expertly, Raylan thought.

“I could go for eggs, yeah.”

“I’ma make you some eggs, but you gotta get up.”

“What the hell, you were a gentleman last night.”

“And you were a lady.”

As Raylan listened, he thought Tim didn’t sound too affectionate, considering the circumstances. He couldn’t figure why, but Raylan had always assumed he’d drop his dry-as-week-old-dog-shit routine if he got good and laid, but apparently that wasn’t the case. 

But still--cribbed as his tone was, Tim hadn’t left the bed. 

“Shit. How long’s that door been open?” Tim’s voice dropped a hair, as if he could sense Raylan’s presence just beyond his bedroom wall.

“Skeletor wanted in around two.”

“Hey.”

“You should run it over a few more times. Send it back to hell.”

“Asshole.”

Hank had buried his head into Tim's pillow; or so Raylan guessed by his muffled voice. “Get a therapy dog like normal headcases.”

“How many eyes you want on us while we’re fucking, huh?”

“I dunno,” Hank teased gleefully. “Is your roommate up yet?”

Dry as the desert, Tim returned: “I’ma spit in your eggs.” 

“That was nice of him to show up.” 

Tim went a little quieter, then. “Yeah.”

“Is he…?”

“ _No._ ”

“Come’on. That hat? A little bit.”

“Nope.” And Tim, the shithead, sounded equally surprised. “He’s fucked more women than had hot meals.” 

“Do I need to be out of here before he wakes up?” Hank asked. “Don’t want to ruin the magic of his first drag show.”

“Naw,” Tim dismissed the notion easily. “I live to crush his hopes and dreams.” 

“I know after O’Brien…" Hank sounded concerned, but Tim was quick to waive any deeper inquiry. 

“No,” Tim said, and although the conversation was Greek to Raylan, Hank got the message: after O'Brien checked out and his family left in a frenzy of tears, confusion, and heartache, Tim had lived alone. It was something he’d never really done before in the plainest sense of the word. 

“How is it?” Hank pressed, and Raylan found himself feeling invested in the answer.

“He’s okay.”

It was probably the nicest thing Tim had ever said about Raylan. 

“High praise," Hank said, then softened considerably, all thoughts of Tim's living situation long gone. "Goddamn. Has it really been a year? I keep forgetting how much your stupid face turns me on.” 

“Eggs’ll help you forget.”

“Can I eat them in here?”

“Fuck no,” Tim said. Then, “Okay.”

There was a squeaking of Tim’s ancient bed as he lumbered off of it, then the rustle of clothes. 

“Goddamn. That tattoo.” 

“Don’t fucking laugh, you did it.” 

Tim’s voice finally betrayed a some honeyed tones of affection--Raylan could practically hear the crooked-toothed smile that accompanied the gentle taunt. 

“I just wanted an excuse to get my hands on you, soldier. And shave your chest.”

“A permanent reminder of your desperation,” Tim surmised. “Just what I asked for.”

Hank laughed gamely. “You want another? I’m probably better now.” Further groaning from the bed frame suggested Tim’s buddy moving around on it, perhaps rolling over to the side Tim had vacated, shortening the distance between them. “Or I could put it where no one would see.”

“Excuse me?” Tim didn’t sound impressed with the implication, there. 

“Most people,” Hank corrected. “Women. And scumfuck Marines.”

“I appreciate the clarification, but you ain’t shaving my pubes.” 

“I know, you were so excited to get them.” 

“2009 was a big year.” 

Tim was still grinning at his own joke when he exited his room in the jeans he’d worn the night before, as well as a clean t-shirt. The verifiable spring in his step that seemed to complement his disheveled appearance all but died the moment Tim’s eyes fell on Raylan, all elbows over the newspaper and a half-empty glass of orange juice. 

“Hey,” Tim said, absently smoothing down his mussed hair. 

“Howdy,” Raylan returned, completely unable to smother his grin. 

Tim disappeared into the bathroom to piss and wash his hands and face. He ventured to the kitchen, then, and with a practiced hand began making good on his promise of breakfast. He cracked a number of eggs in rapid succession into a bowl, added a splash of milk, butter, and salt, and attacked the mixture with a fork as a makeshift whisk. 

After a few minutes more, Tim had made a towering pile of scrambled eggs that threatened to overtake the pan. He kept the mass moving, however, until he was satisfied with the color and texture. He transferred the fluffy meal into a giant cereal bowl, and what was left onto a plate. He rummaged in the fridge a moment and retrieved a bottle of hot sauce. 

“You gonna eat all that by yourself?” Raylan asked, glancing up to take in Tim’s hard work.

In a deceptively flat tone, Tim responded: “No, I’m gonna smear it all over my body and then put it back in the fridge, like I do with all the food.” Tim collected the bowl, the hot sauce, and two forks from the collection Raylan brought to the place. “Hank’s here,” he said, not certain he’d intended to.

Raylan quirked a smile, but hid it behind another snap of his newspaper. “So I heard.”

Tim fought back a roll of his eyes, allowing instead for just a tired sigh. “I left you some eggs.” He said it like it was his fucking cross to bear. 

“Thanks, roomie.”

“Hope you choke on ‘em.”

“That’s sweet.” Testing his luck and Tim's patience, Raylan added thoughtfully, “You know, you ought to wait half an hour.”

His hand at the door, Tim stalled and frowned. “Excuse me?”

Grinning, Raylan said, “Sorry, I just presumed you two had been swimming in each others’ eyes."

Tim stared blankly at Raylan. “Fuck you both ways with a cinder block.” 

This time, Tim closed his bedroom door behind him.

Raylan ate the rest of the eggs and even picked at what had stuck to the pan on the stove; they were fluffy and salty and perfect for his hangover. He made due with salsa rather than hot sauce. 

Tim and Hank didn’t pursue much more conversation; each was content to enjoy some much needed sustenance. Raylan caught just a sliver more of their early-morning exchange, shared between mouthfuls of eggs and too much hot sauce. 

“You should move to Georgia,” Hank said, coolly enough. “We got fugitives. And alligators. _Fucking alligators,_ Gutterson.”

Tim whistled, long and low, to demonstrate his being impressed. Ultimately, he declined the not-quite-invitation with a not-quite-refusal. “I’m good here.” 

Raylan was just returning to the table when Tim and his guest emerged from Tim’s bedroom. Tim glanced around the kitchen, finding that his mess had been taken care of. 

“Thanks,” he said, drumming a short beat against the countertop. He wondered if it was too early for a beer, or if Hank would find that undeniably endearing. 

“Mornin’,” Hank greeted Raylan brightly. 

Hank was a good deal taller than Tim, which wasn’t a difficult feat. He was broad-shouldered, warmly tanned, and--unlike Tim--still sported the same precision-neat haircut he’d had for the last decade of his life. In a Ranger-green t-shirt and plain cargo pants, he looked as though he’d dropped out of a helicopter to land in Tim’s kitchen. 

Still, he was shorter than Raylan remembered. Tim’s easy moniker of his fellow Ranger--the 6’3” Mother Mary--didn’t seem to gel. He said as much, figuring it was as friendly as he could manage without causing undue offense. 

“6’3” in heels,” Hank stipulated. 

“Ah,” Raylan said, noting the man’s bare feet. He quirked an assured smile. “Mystery solved.”

Tim made coffee, failing to smother his grin all the while. 

Hank crowded Tim in the kitchen. It was playful and little more than a light elbowing or purposefully putting himself in Tim’s path and standing too long, too close. Tim bumped him back, on occasion. 

While the coffee dripped, Hank made himself comfortable in the chair opposite Raylan’s at the small table. He hadn’t been sitting more than five seconds before he smacked the tabletop with the palm of his hand. “Oh, shit. I _do_ know you! You shoot a guy like you did in Florida, and Georgia gets jealous.” Raylan just smiled; Hank knew the story and wasn’t asking for its retelling. 

Hank laughed at his own joke and threw an arm over the back of his chair, turning his body slightly to face Tim, who was leaning into the natural corner formed by the wall separating Raylan’s room from the kitchen, and the fridge. 

“That’s pretty cool,” Hank said over his shoulder to Tim. “Rooming with the guy who took out Tommy Bucks.”

“It’s a dream come true,” Tim deadpanned. “I just feel so safe at night, knowing he’s here.”

He inclined his coffee mug, now full. “You want a cup?” Quickly, he added, “On the deck?” 

“Subtle,” Raylan noted. 

“Shit, lemme clarify: You ain’t invited,” Tim said. He fixed Hank a cup and led the way. 

It was cool out. The sky was colored bright blue and didn’t mind the warm treetops chewing at it. Kentucky was creeping further into autumn. 

Once settled into the deck chairs, Hank put a hand at the back of Tim’s neck while Tim kept his hands to himself. Hank absently used his thumb to rub circles against Tim’s hairline. Watching them, Raylan got the feeling Tim felt whatever Hank was doing now was infinitely more intimate than whatever they’d done the night before. 

Although Raylan couldn’t hear him for the distance and the slightly-ajar sliding glass door, Hank was talking. Tim would sometimes incline his head and show that he was listening. Mostly, though, he just brought his mug of coffee to his lips every time he meant to smile. Theirs was an easy comradare. 

At a quarter to eight, however, Raylan was forced to disturb the pair. 

He rapped twice with his knuckle on the glass door. “Hank, you call for a taxi?”

“You got somewhere to be?” Tim asked, his brow creased with confusion. 

“Flight to catch,” Hank admitted with a tender half-smile to Tim. He left his mug in Tim’s care and disappeared into the house to quickly gather his things.

Tim glanced at his watch and did the math; ten hours--a new record. He ignored the look Raylan was giving him, some unholy cross between knowing satisfaction and sympathy. Tim relaxed, forced the lines of displeasure off his forehead, and willed himself into a place of emotional ease. Hank departing so soon wasn't any great evil; it was merely a fact. Tim pretended Hank had told him this earlier, maybe before taking Tim's dick in his mouth, and that they'd agreed it kind of sucked, but he was here now, wasn't he? 

Content with the conversation he'd just made up, Tim squeezed past Raylan and helped Hank sort his things from Tim's on the bedroom floor. Then, Tim returned to the kitchen and waited. 

Hank emerged from the bedroom, looking sheepish as he brandished a pair of high-heeled shoes. “Fuck. Hey, I borrowed these from--Phil, was his name--at the bar. Tall, black guy. Real nice. You mind dropping them off tonight? I’d have the taxi swing ‘round but this is a work trip…” 

“On my life,” Tim droned, accepting the task and holding one strappy, sparkly heel in each hand, “I will return these shoes.”

“Hoo-ah,” Hank teased. He stuck out his hand for Raylan. “Good to meet you. Thanks for takin’ in the show.”

"It's my passion," Raylan said, then clarified, “Supporting local businesses."

Hank laughed. “Hey, mine too.”

"Here." Tim handed Hank a banana. 

"That's not nice," Hank admonished playfully.

"I don't believe I specified where you ought to put it." Tim cocked his head to one side. "Could be good to have before a flight."

"Oh," Hank said, genuinely surprised. "Is it?" 

Tim shrugged one shoulder. "Hell if I know. I was gonna tell you _go fuck yourself,_ but you beat me to the punch line." 

Hank bellowed a laugh that left his shoulders sagging. He looked at Tim like he was sorry for something, or remembering something he ought to be sorry for. 

“Gutterson," Hank shook his head in admiration. "Lemme grope you by the door.” 

“Next time,” Tim promised. He stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. 

“Think about it. Savannah, Georgia. Alligators and Civil War memorials. Sufficiently wooed yet?”

Hank embraced Tim in a brief hug, retrieved his backpack and briefcase from the hallway, and was gone. Tim didn’t see him off; he turned and finished his coffee against the sink before washing out his mug and returning to his bedroom. 

He reemerged having traded his jeans for shorts, run the earbuds of his iPod up his shirt, and donned a pair of scuffed sneakers. 

“You gonna be here for a bit?” Tim asked aloud, shuffling through his music collection and pointedly not looking at Raylan. 

Raylan was siphoning what was left from the coffee pot and adding milk and sugar to make up the difference in his mug. “I don’t have much in the way of pressing plans at seven forty-five in the morning, no.”

“I won’t bring my keys, then.” 

Tom Hanks came padding out of Tim’s room, found Tim’s legs and darted through them. Tim sighed and made for the pantry, collecting a small tin of cat food.

“Where you run at, anyway?” Raylan asked, watching as Tim first emptied and cleaned the two small chrome dishes. They clattered in the sink, and when it was time to dry them Tim dug around the kitchen, swearing under his breath as every washcloth seemed to escape his keen eye.

“Dog park,” he answered curtly. “Twice around is a mile.”

“You just run in circles?”

“It’s more of a polygon shape.” Tim stooped to fill Tom Hank’s food dish with wet cat food. It stank, but Raylan didn’t voice any objections. “Like you said, not much in the way of pressing plans.” 

Raylan gave a soft huff of laughter. Tim had been as cheerful as he got without the added benefit of any alcohol before his _buddy_ left, and now he was smarting. Raylan didn’t find it humorous, exactly--just a little enlightening. When he next found Tim passive-aggressively feeding the cat, he’d know to keep his distance. “You’re in Kentucky, son. Rolling hills and bluegrass and shit. You could go up a mountain.”

“I been up mountains.”

“Horses," Raylan tried. "Ya seen any horses? Kentucky Horse Park, or--Raven Run. At least see some scenery.”

“I gotta drive someplace to run around?” 

“You big baby, I’ll drive.”

“Raylan." Tim regarded his fellow Marshal with a dead-eyed stare, equal parts hungover and sex-sated. He sounded tired. Then, he sounded _insane._ "Are you gonna be my friend?” Tim’s eyes shined with a horrible _glee_ Raylan would learn to truly regret inspiritng. “Are you gonna be my _best friend?_ ”

-

Raylan minded his steps. He knew there was a little creek secreted away in these woods, but couldn’t see the forest floor for all its natural cover. Red and orange leaves littered the ground like confetti, making space only for the odd rock, shrub, or fallen tree branch. The ground was perpetually wet and the air smelled near- _violently_ of dirt, like a rain shower had passed, pounded into the earth, and awakened every particle of life. If this was even a fraction of the experience Tim found running through the dog park, Raylan supposed he could understand why Tim would drag his ass out of bed each morning to do it. There was something innately comforting about putting one’s foot down on wet, heaving, swollen earth. 

Tim had changed back into jeans and a t-shirt--a sort of signal to Raylan that he wasn’t planning to run off, that they could hike the space in a healthy distance of one another. Tim did disappear in the first ten minutes, but cut through untouched forest and found Raylan on the trail again. 

Raylan was very near making a comment about _playtime,_ but considered the more likely alternative and said nothing. Tim wasn’t enjoying himself running rampant through the woods; he was scouting. 

They wandered in amiable silence. The earth was soft and wet and seemed to cradle their every step. It was a sort of comfort, then, that their whole bodies, their entire selves were recognized by such an impressive space.

Wetting his lips, Tim started the conversation, if only to head off Raylan’s comments about Hank and the night before. 

“What’d you do in Miami?” he asked, arms swinging easily at his sides. “Besides shoot people on crowded piers. What’d you do there that you can’t do here?”

Raylan gave it a moment's though."More women."

Tim quirked his brows. “Outside your gene pool, no less.” 

“Jesus,” Raylan said with a gasping laugh Tim only knew to be indicative of one thing: guilt.

“You didn’t, you sick fuck.”

“I was in the third grade," Raylan said in his defense. "She was a cousin I’d never met.”

“And you fucked her?”

“Third grade, Tim,” Raylan repeated, sounding affronted despite Tim’s obvious joking tone. “We kissed on the playground.” Raylan shook his head like he could erase that particular tangent from the atmosphere. “But yeah. The women in Miami. Beautiful. Confident, like they all took one look at themselves and knew to flock there. Endless… pussy.” He gave a sideways smile then seemed to catch himself. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s me. Clutching my pearls.” 

Tim stared at Raylan like he meant to say something, but pulled back, shook off the need, and buried even the slightest inclination. Raylan’s thoughts drifted back to Miami.

“Couple of nice beaches,” Raylan amended, now raking his mind because truly--his first answer was the most honest one. “A lot more of a city to see than Lexington. Worse bars, better food. How about--” Raylan stopped himself. 

“Afghanistan?” Tim supplied. “Worse bars, better food.” 

“I meant--wherever the hell you’re from,” Raylan covered sloppily. “Texas?” 

“Got back stateside and headed straight to Lexington.” His immediate response was a neat, compact little statement Tim had very nearly forgotten was a lie. “Mark’s dad let me crash at his place. Did my time at Glynco and saw there was an office here, so,” he shrugged, feeling his story to be a great deal less impressive than Raylan’s road to Lexington.

“Why not go tactical?” Raylan asked, because he’d always been curious. “Bigger paycheck, more action, less paperwork.”

Tim had an answer for this. He could spout it off well enough, for as often as he was requested for a SOG op, performed admirably, was clapped on the shoulder, guided away to a quiet corner by the op commander, and not-so-subtly given the transfer spiel. But somehow, he couldn’t command the words--hell, he couldn’t even find them. 

“I didn’t want my next job to be a compromise,” he said, and frowned, knowing he wasn’t making much sense. “It’s not… a good idea to play militia where you don’t need one. I know a lot of guys,” Tim wished he could stop himself, but the compulsion to shut down that stupid fucking question--carried as it was on the shoulders of _Are you an idiot? Why not do something you’re good at?_ \--was simply too great. “A lot of guys are shitty people outside the military. It wasn’t printed on a brochure and stuffed in a _welcome home_ tote bag, but they told us it was best if you could drop everything, make a clean departure, so that if you go insane or fall apart, you’re not in a position to hurt other people.”

The explanation made sense to Tim, anyway. Raylan still had questions.

“You got your sidearm, though. And a rifle.”

What Raylan _didn’t_ have was enough respect for Tim to make his doubts _into_ questions; he just said words and presumed that Tim would intuit his meaning. 

“There are other ways to hurt people,” Tim reasoned, and then, “I never killed anybody I wasn’t supposed to.” 

Although Tim’s explanation wasn’t as streamlined as Raylan was used to hearing from him ( _When’d you get in?_ Earlier. _What’re’ya reading?_ A book.), he gathered that for good or ill, Tim had made his peace with shooting Colton Rhodes.

“Uh-huh.”

“Yep.” 

A frigid wind swept over the hill and scalped some trees. A leaf caught itself in Tim's hair, and he brushed it away before jamming his hands into his jeans pockets.

Tim started going off trail again, and this time Raylan followed him. 

“Were you pissed at me over something at that bar?”

 _That bar,_ Tim wanted to throw back, but held his tongue. 

“Why, what’d’you remember?” He kept his back to Raylan and ensured some distance as though his genuine frustration might not read so well if he put enough obstacles in its way.

“That you were pissed at me over something.”

Tim continued to stomp through leaves and over uneven earth. “Your jokes weren’t funny.”

They happened upon a clearing and Raylan was finally able to catch up to Tim.

“Listen. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the, uh, living situation.” Raylan took off his hat, smoothed a hand through his hat, then repositioned the hat. “I get the feeling I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“Oh, have I been talking in my sleep?”

“And your waking hours, yes.”

“Oh, rats.”

Raylan stopped and leaned against a tree. “Arlo’s house ain’t selling. I’ve got to get the city to evaluate the land, see what it’s worth to cut my losses and bulldoze the place.” He sighed. Arlo was a pain in his ass even in the afterlife. “Plus, I’m kind of waiting on Winona, seein’ where she stands on moving up here with me.” 

Tim still managed to have his back to Raylan; he’d found a thorny bush with red berries and sharp green leaves. A number of sparrows bounced among the branches, chirping wildly. “So this ain’t a goodbye, it’s an apology?”

“An explanation,” Raylan specified, and frowned when Tim shrugged. “If I make a move on a two bedroom place in a nice school district, I’m the asshole stuck with it when Winona won’t play ball.” 

Tim inched the toe of his sneaker under the bush, wanting to stir the birds but not harm them. “Well, as that asshole presently, I can tell you, _yes,_ there are certain drawbacks to having an extra room.” 

Raylan held his tongue. It was difficult to take Tim seriously that his presence wasn’t so great a trial when Tim kept throwing the matter back in his face. Frustrated, he brandished the only ace up his sleeve. “You know, I haven’t said anything. Even to Rachel, though I presume she knows…”

Tim pulled his foot back and allowed the birds their peace. “‘Course Rachel knows, she’s not a fuckin’ idiot.”

“And Art?” Raylan pressed, cornering Tim into either talking shit about the boss they both genuinely liked, or owning up to his fears. 

Tim turned to face his fellow Marshal because he wanted no room for doubt when he told Raylan, point-blank, _“Art would not want to know.”_

It was the simplest, truest answer.

Tim liked Art, liked his job. Above all that, however, Tim held _needing_ his job in higher esteem. He could justify his silence knowing he wasn’t alone with it all day, that he had work and tasks with which to occupy his time. Furthermore, Tim had long-since convinced himself that being honest with others was a useless route to take if it got you expelled from their company. 

Bored with standing around, Tim soldiered ahead, quickly finding the trail. It headed downwards where the rest of the forest seemed to be spiralling upwards, fashioning itself into a very respectable hillside. 

“Just so I’m clear, is this your go-to line? _I haven’t shared career-ending information about you when I totally could, so let me be an asshole as I please?_ ”

Raylan smirked. “You caught me.”

Tim studied the thick swell of woods to his right. Dense trees and wet earth begged his exploration. “Anyway. I don’t need this song and dance. You’ll be there ‘til you ain’t.” 

The incline of earth to the right of the trail dipped low, making a kind of natural walkway up the pass. Great slabs of stone protruded from the earth and young trees stood tall and strong even on the incline. Tim ducked under a low hanging branch heavy with moss and climbed up into it, and Raylan followed suit, a hand raised to steady his hat. They departed vertically from the path and reached an untouched plateau. Raylan nearly walked into Tim, however, because just over the steep pass the younger Marshal had stopped and stooped to inspect a tiny carcass of bleach-white bones on the forest floor. 

“That’s a bat,” Raylan observed, and Tim nodded absently. He’d figured it for a bird at first glance, but sided with Raylan now. He stood and dusted the dry leaves from his pants leg. 

“Guess you’d know if it was a canary.” 

Raylan grinned. “That’s certainly something they didn’t have in Miami,” he noted, thinking of dark coal mines, cramped spaces, and Boyd Crowder’s brilliant white teeth. Always grinning, like he was having the time of his life. 

The world seemed to favor that notion, as the sky cleared of clouds and poured light on Tim and Raylan’s microcosm Kentucky adventure. They waded through the woods until they saw the trail again, and climbed down from the pass. 

The rest of their hike was given to silence. Tim didn’t speak again until they’d left the trail, trees, and smelly wet earth behind and stepped into the cold comfort of the parking lot. 

He stood at the passenger side of the Lincoln, waiting for Raylan’s slow gait to amount to something. “You’d better have plans tomorrow.”

“Why’s that?”

“Otherwise we’ll have spent the weekend together.” 

“Shit,” Raylan said, realizing the time. He folded his arms over the roof of his car and lifted his chin towards Tim, a gesture to precede his query. “Yeah, I’ll make plans. You got plans?”

“Going to a movie.” 

“Shit.” Raylan dropped into his car and was joined by Tim. “That’s a good plan.” 

“All right. You go to the movie, I’ll do something else. The other trail here, maybe.”

“I’d rather do the trail than see a movie.”

Tim sighed. “You do whatever, and I’ll just masturbate angrily into one of your boots.”

“A regular Saturday night, then?” Raylan grinned and started the car.

“So. Hank, huh?”

Somehow, Tim knew Raylan had been waiting until they were both trapped in the confines of his town car before asking this question. In the woods, Tim could have easily run away and survived for days on roots and berries, fashioned shelter out of leaves and rotted-out tree trunks, all the while never being compelled by another human being to answer a question about the man he’d brought home last night and fucked. 

Tim stared coolly ahead. “I surely don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You screw all your buddies?”

“I screw only my best buddies.” 

There were no heavily wooded, hidden-away spaces for Tim to escape into; there was only Raylan and his decision to take either the highway or the backroads home. 

_So. Hank, huh?_

Raylan learned that after two tours, Hank returned home with a serious concussion and an honourable discharge. He went to law school and lives in Georgia, where there’s some budding interest in him running for public office. 

“Well now,” Raylan said, impressed. Smart, handsome war hero-turned-lawyer spelled a winning ticket.

“Yeah,” Tim agreed tiredly. With his thumbnail digging into the crease in his forehead, Tim was practically spotlighting the anxiety he harbored over such a notion. “He’s always doin’ really stupid shit.”

“He asked you down,” Raylan remarked, thinking he’d get a rise out of Tim. He was mistaken.

“Like I said.”

“So he talks a big game,” Raylan inferred, glancing sidelong at Tim. 

Although not certain quite what it was he was defending--not Hank, but maybe himself?--Tim pressed: “He fucks men and wears skirts. How many would-be politicians get away with both?”

Raylan barked out a laugh. “ _Are you kidding me?_ Judge Reardon hires prostitutes, then takes referrals from _those_ prostitutes, because even Kentucky girls have their limits.”

Tim was not put at ease. “Any of them have cocks?”

“Statistically…” Raylan was at a loss. 

Tim sort of smiled at that, considering. He shook his head, then, thinking about Raylan’s earlier comment: _He asked you down._ It was, contrary to Raylan’s honest sentiment, a stupid thing. Living together, _being together_ , at all let alone in Savannah, Georgia. The way Tim figured it, people say things to make you happy, knowing they don’t have to deliver on it. He said as much to Raylan, adding, “Pretty basic shit. Maybe you know how that goes.”

“I can think of a few minor incidences,” Raylan said, figuring himself on both side of that equation. 

“Well, you think on that a while, Raylan,” Tim droned. “Present your findings later.” 

Tim folded his arms across his chest and settled in against the leather interior of Raylan’s car. He was actually surprised Raylan hadn’t insisted that he take the return leg. Tim glanced at Raylan.

“Why do you do that,” Tim asked, frowning.

“Do what?”

Tim’s frown deepened. “Smile.”

“Why do I smile. Must be ‘cause you’re so damn charming.”

“Smilin’ like you mean to laugh,” Tim clarified. “Is there something you find funny, here?”

Looking at Tim with nothing but confusion marring his features, Raylan insisted, “I ain’t making fun, Tim. The second you start to have a good time, you look pissed.”

“I’m pissed ‘cause you’re laughing at me.” 

“I’m smiling ‘cause I like what I see.” 

Tim made a displeased face and then droned to an invisible audience, "Help. I need an adult."

Exasperated, Raylan set his friend straight: “I’m glad you’ve got yourself a boyfriend, Tim. Sorry he’s such a flake.”

Tim scrubbed a hand over his face, slightly appalled. If he’d ever in his youth spoken with an adult about his first crush, Tim imagined it still wouldn’t have been as incredibly, painfully awkward as this. This was like when his father caught him masturbating, but with the added bonus of if he’d seen the Wolverine comic book Tim was working with under the covers. “Hank ain’t my boyfriend. Hank is a guy I fuck when he’s in town. You know what that’s like.”

“Somewhat,” Raylan allowed, smiling again.

Tim scowled. His phone buzzed in his jeans pocket and upon reading and responding to a message, Tim’s attitude brightened considerably.

For Tim, however, that put him somewhere on the spectrum between _testing positive for Hepatitis A_ and _getting seconds on the shellfish that gave him Hepatitis A._

“Next weekend,” Tim started, staring at his phone. “Can you feed Tom Hanks?” 

“You asking me or your phone?”

Tim lobbed Raylan an exasperated look, the kind normally reserved for their workday. “Raylan, if a fucking plate could do this, I already be gone.” 

“Where you going?” Raylan asked, then continued before Tim could answer, “Wouldn’t happen to be seeking some warmer weather now, would you?”

Tim pocketed his phone. “Going to Detroit, actually.”

Raylan sat up a little straighter in the driver’s seat, interested. 

“Keep it in your pants,” Tim advised. “It’s got nothing to do with your new friends, the mob.” 

“Forgive me, but I don’t see you as a Motown fan. What have you got going on in Detroit?”

“Nothing,” Tim answered honestly, and surprised himself by elaborating: “It’s about halfway between Lexington and Toronto.” He frowned. “And fuck you, who doesn’t love Motown?”

“What have you got going on in Toronto?” Raylan pressed, then grinned. “Ah, no need to say. You look pissed.” He tapped a triumphant little tune on the steering wheel. “So you’re making the drive this time, that’s something. Is he a Mountie?”

“In what sense of the word,” Tim deadpanned.

Raylan smiled again, just the way Tim hated.

“One cup of dry, half a can of wet. He gets any more than that and he’ll barf it up.”

“Are we still talking about your boyfriend?” Raylan teased. “Why’s this fella in Canada?”

“Because he’s Canadian,” Tim said. “I think it’s some condition they’re all born with.”

“Tragic,” Raylan allowed. He drove a while longer, permitting silence like it was his to dictate. Then, cool and unremarkable as he could conduct himself, Raylan pressed: "Tell me about him.”

In Raylan’s estimation, he was merely expressing a simple, innocent interest in Tim’s life. 

Tim wasn’t fooled. For however much truth managed to dribble out of his mouth when Raylan was around, there were a few things he knew were best kept to himself. Identities, for one. “Well he's got this monster dick…”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a name,” Raylan said, smirking. 

Tim was ready with a joke-- _Well he calls it Godzilla_ \--but _once again,_ a goddamn honest answer tumbled out instead. “A.B. Myers,” Tim supplied.

It came without so much fight that Raylan figured it for a lie, somehow--for as little sense as that made. Testing his theory, Raylan pressed, “Well I guess it can’t be too serious if he’s only given you his initials.” 

“He breeds reindeer,” Tim said it like the fact was proof of their intimacy. Outside the car window, Tim could see they were fast approaching traffic into the city.

Raylan took one last shot in the dark, this time aiming at something he’d admittedly been hung up on for some time. “And he’s fine with you…” There was no polite way to put it, so Raylan wasn’t polite. “Seeing other men as often as you do.”

“Like you’re a nun,” Tim fired back. Then, he glanced sidelong at Raylan, suddenly concerned. “Jesus, that ain’t what I’m doing every night. I go to movies sometimes, _Christ._ ” Tim laughed--a little offended, sure, but the look on Raylan’s face more than made up for it. The man was red with wanting--wanting to argue that _no_ he hadn’t given Tim’s activities as much thought as it appeared, wanting to take back the comment altogether, wanting to stop Tim’s laughing because he finally had a taste of what it felt like to be of amusement to another. “I went to a concert last week. I go out to dinner.”

“You go out for dinner,” Raylan echoed flatly.

“Yes, Raylan. Because man can’t survive on jizz alone.” Tim shook his head. “I’m gay, but _it ain’t a second job._ ”

Tim was exaggerating, some. If he wanted his dick sucked before seeing _Thor: The Dark World,_ he could get it sorted. The anonymous ruts in hurried succession outside a bar were a lot more common, for instance, than bringing men back to his place. Tim was very selective in that instance, and looked for in others what he saw in himself: an appreciation for caution and discretion in the approach, but full commitment to the deed. Tim didn’t want to hear about anyone’s wife and kids--imaginary or not--as a means for making a hasty escape.

Anthony was a misfire, though. Poor kid thought it was a _date._

And Hank--well. Hank was sort of a given.

Raylan held his hands open in mock-surrender. 

"Forgive me,” he said, very nearly matching Tim’s level of dry, acidic tones. “You have a rich private life. I see that now."

“Thank you,” Tim said haughtily. “Hands on the goddamn wheel, if you don’t mind.”

\- 

Exactly twenty-one and a quarter hours later, Raylan stood in the kitchen feeling nauseated. Hands resting on his narrow hips, he swore and looked into Tim's empty living room. The curtain was pulled back from the sliding glass doors, washing the space in warm sunlight and the occasional shadow from a heavy passing cloud. It was as simple and sparse as when Raylan moved in; for as much as he was an obstacle in Tim's home life, he didn't bring any with him. 

The few steps to Tim's door felt like miles.

Raylan thought about the movie he wasn’t going to be seeing, today.

“Tim. You need to come out here. I can’t say what I need to through the door.” 

It wasn't locked, Raylan noticed, so he opened it and stuck his head in. Tim was sat sideways in the green chair by the window, reading a magazine. He was practically crumpled into the chair, with one elbow tucked away against the seat’s back and the other affording him balance across the seat. With his legs draped over into the space between the chair and the window, and his bare feet planted flat against the cracked windowsill, Tim didn’t look particularly relaxed, but settled. He glanced up from his magazine and eyed Raylan, thinking it was a little too soon to have another chat about personal space and respecting someone’s privacy. 

Tim made a show of closing his magazine and bequeathing unto Raylan his full attention. “What.”

Raylan ducked his head some, sorry that this was his task to man. 

“Tim, your cat died.” Raylan stuffed his hands down his jeans pockets. “He’s curled up behind the toilet. He ain’t moving. He’s gone.” 

Tim’s eyes fixed on Raylan, steady-like and unblinking. Raylan got the distinct feeling Tim was seeing him through crosshairs. Tim tossed the magazine on his bed and lifted himself out of the chair--gracefully, despite all odds. In the doorway, Raylan moved to let him pass. 

“Shit,” Raylan heard Tim murmur from the bathroom. Then, “Fuck.” A string of angry, soft-spoken _fuck_ s as he retrieved the body. And finally, “Aw, buddy.” 

Raylan stood in the doorway, not sure of what else to do. Sit on the couch and watch TV? Ask that Tim move so he could return to taking his interrupted shit? 

When a grown man was sat on his bathroom floor cradling a dead cat to his chest, you didn’t ask him to scooch over. Raylan knew as much. 

Rising from the floor, Tim held the body like Raylan imagined he must have done the night he nearly killed the thing: protective, even though there was nothing that could hurt the creature, now. One arm under the body, the other over it, affixing it to him, putting it in proximity to his heartbeat in the hopes that he would take a liking, maybe, and mimic such behavior. 

There was no repeat performance of the spectacle made three years ago, however.

Tim wrapped the body in a towel and left with it, getting into his car but just sitting there for a time, Tom Hanks riding shotgun. He only put the SUV in gear and pulled away when Raylan opened the front door of his house and started to approach.

Tim took and dealt with the body, smaller now than it had ever been in its sprawling, pot-bellied glory. Raylan didn’t follow up on the particulars--if Tim meant to bury the body, take it to the friendly neighborhood cat incineration facility, _whatever._

Whatever Tim did, he did it and was back at the house within the hour. 

Wordlessly, he collected Tom Hanks’ dishes from their respective corner of the kitchen, as well as the canned food stacked on top of the fridge. Then he placed them in a small pile at the bottom of the pantry, like he imagined they could be used again. He pulled a bottle of bourbon and didn’t bother collecting a glass.

Although Raylan said nothing, his disapproval was registered, seemingly, by a look directed at Tim as he made a b-line for his bedroom. Tim brandished the bottle proudly.

“I’m an alcoholic,” he said. “If not now, when?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that happened.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is such a weird, long chapter. I literally had three notes when I began: _Dog. Park. Winona._ And yet it became a kind of multi-day, day-in-the-life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The book mentioned is _Bonsai_ by Alejandro Zambra.  
>  \- I don't usually specify trigger warnings, and I should be better about that. This chapter isn't particularly graphic in that way, but just to note: suicide (not of a major character)

Tim canceled his plans for Detroit the following weekend, claiming a _scheduling conflict,_ although Raylan doubted it was on the Toronto end of things. Raylan didn't press the matter; that wasn't how they did things. If anything, Raylan felt more familiar with the space of Tim's house, not the owner himself. He'd gained access to a few of the man's secrets, sure, but only out of sheer proximity. And as Raylan could attest, knowing what a man kept quiet was still not knowing the man. 

At any rate, Tim’s decision to stay in Lexington benefited Raylan, who took advantage of Tim's sour mood to press upon him the responsibility of being nearby should intel come in on one of the cases they were working. (Art was a stickler for seeing a case through no matter the time table, but Raylan was passionate about the supposed 9-5, Monday to Friday work week, or so he such was his claim whenever work impeded on his personal business.)

Raylan visited Winona and the baby the next two weekends, so if anything was bothering Tim, he hadn’t been around to notice. 

On a Saturday morning almost three weeks to the day Tim’s cat died, Raylan found Tim on the deck, sitting with his bare feet propped up against the wood railing. It was cooler out, but not so much that Tim wasn’t comfortable in jeans and a pullover, drinking an ice-cold beer despite the early hour. It wasn’t even noon, yet.

He was reading a book so slim and odd in its shape Raylan initially mistook it for a pamphlet. 

The backyard was buried somewhere under a blanket of red thistles and fat, orange leaves. The swell of color seemed to breathe with each half-hearted gust of wind leftover from the previous evening’s more gallant efforts. The storm had stripped the trees behind Tim’s house bare, leaving them to protrude from the wet ground like earthy stalks of lightning. It looked otherworldly and for a moment, Raylan commiserated with Tim, feeling sorry it had to happen. 

That moment soon passed, as Raylan swatted Tim’s shoulder with a rolled-up computer print-out. He’d found and filled out the form at work earlier in the week, making good use of taxpayers’ money. 

“We got plans today.” Raylan dropped the offending roll into Tim’s lap. 

Tim unfurled the paper, read two lines, and returned it to Raylan, uninterested. 

“I don’t want a dog,” Tim said, and took a long swig of beer. 

“Yeah, you do,” Raylan pointed to part of the application he’d filled out. “Says so right there. This is an official state document, Tim.” 

Tim stared unseeingly at the words in his book. “I can’t take care of a dog,” he said.

Raylan swatted him again, trying for playful but knowing he was on the fast road to obnoxious. “Sure you can. You took care of a cat.”

Tim frowned with only his eyebrows. “He’s dead.”

“Wonderful,” Raylan intoned. “You’ve accepted it and can now move on.”

Tim sighed, but otherwise didn’t stir from his seat. He turned a page in his book, then turned it back. He leaned his head back so that it touched the glass door, and his long neck (prickly with day-old growth) was exposed. He narrowed his eyes at Raylan. “Do you know any Spanish?”

“Some,” Raylan allowed.

Tim held up his book and pointed with his index finger at a Spanish phrase printed amidst the English. _Si follaramos._

“If we fuck,” Raylan deciphered. “Glad you asked me something I know, else I’d be embarrassed.”

As though he hadn’t heard Raylan’s effort at a joke, Tim nodded and re-read the passage. "Should have figured that," he mumbled to himself. "Context clues." 

Sighing, Raylan wondered aloud, “Do I have to stand here and wait for you to finish your book?”

“It’s short.”

“I’ll wait, then.” Raylan moved to lean against the deck railing. He stood in Tim’s sun. “Who’s fucking?” 

“Well it ain’t a done deal yet,” Tim drawled, ignoring the shadow cast over his book.

Tim read five more pages with Raylan hovering near him. Figuring Raylan knew he could easily wait him out did, admittedly, influence Tim’s decision to exercise pity. Still, in the good spirit of psychological warfare, Tim read another ten pages, just to rile Raylan. 

He stood up and sighed, and allowed Raylan to take him to get a goddamn dog. 

\- 

At the rescue shelter, Raylan still tried to raise Tim's interest in the prospect of a new pet. “Come on, man. We can get you one of those labradoodles you’re always on about.”

“History’s greatest monster,” Tim said as he and Raylan were given the adoption spiel and led to a large room towards the back of the building.

“Yeah, those.”

The floor of the room was a wriggling, rolling mess of tiny paws and floppy ears. The puppies moved en masse to swarm Raylan and Tim, identifying them as newcomers. Raylan found this amusing and lobbed Tim an easy smile. “You know those life-altering religious experiences people go on about having?”

“Like bad-touch from a priest?”

Raylan, who had taken a knee to meet the pups on their own level, sighed. “You know, most people would find your incessant pessimism unattractive.” 

Tim cocked his head. “But?”

“Hmm?” Raylan patted the head of an excitable terrier. “But nothing. I am among the opinion of most people.” 

Tim caught the eye of a cute young volunteer whose jeans and t-shirt were streaked with dog hair and slobber. 

“These need to be fed, right?” Tim drawled blandly. “At semi-regular intervals?”

Raylan cut in, charmed the girl with simple questions and requests for her expertise in the delicate matters of dog adoption.

Tim gently shook a poodle mix from his boot, where it had taken to gnawing on the laces. “Can’t I get a cat?”

“No,” Raylan insisted promptly. “You don’t replace one cat with another, Tim. They know that kind of thing.” 

“So what I really want is a blind, deaf, and dumb dog,” Tim gathered. “Nothing too perceptive.”

“Well if that ain't a metaphor for your sex life..." Raylan trailed off, grinning. He found a dark, speckle-faced hound mutt and lifted him from the ground, displaying him as an example for his point. “You want something smart, with sharp senses and a killer instinct.” He put down the hound and collected a lazy pug. “Being just a warm lap is no way to go through life, Tim.” 

Tim countered with a dead-eyed stare and a verbal offering of his usual laconic self: “God, you’re funny.” 

Tim observed the dogs, but couldn’t even will himself to forge and interest. Meanwhile, Raylan seemed particular to some hound mutts. They were varied in their coloring--some reddish, some blue--short-haired, and friendly. They circled Raylan, poked at the crevice of his bended knee, his elbow, always keen for a way in. 

“Raylan, I don’t want a dog.” Tim continued to stand dejectedly near the door, unresponsive toward the advances of curious puppies crawling over his boots and nipping at the hem of his jeans. He knelt down to nudge a few away, then stood straight-backed and favored Raylan with a tight little frown. “You pick out yours and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Raylan’s hand stilled on the speckle-faced puppy he’d been favoring, and the thing whimpered and wriggled, angling for another scratch behind the ears. 

Not two minutes later, Raylan met Tim at the counter, looking a little sheepish but nonetheless pleased with the fat-bellied pup in his arms. It was still small and young, but with powerful lanky legs that were suggestive of his potential size. It was one of the mixed hounds, its dark reddish face split with a stripe of white and blasted with spots. The speckling continued down his chest and belly, smoothing into solid, white and light red hues along his legs. His face wasn't so severe for a hound; the retriever in him seemed primed for going after tennis balls rather than live game.

Finishing the paperwork, Tim held up two of the complementary dog dishes available upon completing an adoption. “Blue or red?”

“Don’t we need two?”

“You’ve passed the final test," Tim intoned dryly, and then, to the girl behind the counter processing the adoption, he added, “What did I tell you.”

She smiled and shook her head. To Raylan, she said, “You’ve got a good one.” 

“Yeah, I like the spots,” Raylan agreed absently. 

“Well I never,” Tim mumbled, taking offense. “We will discuss this transgression in the car. Sign here.”

Raylan balanced the puppy against his hip and accepted the pen proffered by Tim. “You sure about this?” 

“Man, that’s the second time you’ve asked me that.” Tim kept his eyes on the forms. “Same topic, too.”

“Taking in strays," Raylan agreed, and signed the documents. 

Tim found the dog’s nose and gave it a playful honk. The pup made to chomp at Tim’s fingers, but ended up only slobbering on them. “I figure, time he gets big enough to need it, you’ll have your own place.” 

Raylan wasn’t sure when Tim had achieved Jedi status and pulled a mind trick on him, but the outcome wasn’t so objectable. Raylan hadn’t had a dog since he was a kid. “That’s real decent of you, Tim.”

“Yeah, well. Let’s go before they find out you killed my cat.” 

“I did not--”

“With your hurtful words, Raylan. Your constant stream of abuse.” 

\- 

From the animal shelter, Tim and Raylan headed to the nearest pet supply store. They drove in silence, save for the puppy’s eager huffing and yelps. With Raylan sat with the thing in his lap, it fell to Tim to man the wheel. 

Stopped at a light, both men observed the truck in front of them. Mounted awkwardly at its end was an aluminium horse trailer with cutouts and vents. The creature in the trailer was turned to face them, except it was no horse, but rather a massive, dusty-brown camel. Tim stared at it unblinkingly.

Raylan frowned at him. “Friend of yours?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Tim breathed. His face suddenly flushed red, but was broken with a wide, white grin. “Goddamn. Thought I was imagining it. What a stupid fucking hallucination that’d be, huh?” He scrubbed a hand over his face and leaned to his left to get a better look at the truck pulling the thing. “Is it going to Petco, do you think?” 

\- 

While Tim gathered the materials on the list provided to them by the shelter, Raylan chatted up the cashier. He ended up getting an impressive discount, so Tim couldn’t fault him too much for his behavior. 

Pulling up to his house and stepping out of the car, Tim asked, “What are you gonna call him? Besides _Tim’s Dog_ after he takes his first shit in your boots.” 

“Give me a little credit,” Raylan said, occupying himself with the dog and leaving Tim to once again gather all of their supplies. “I’ve got two boots.” 

Raylan inspected the dog and tried, “Murph?”

“ _Merve?_ ” Tim echoed, displeased. 

“Murphy,” Raylan corrected, then thought better of it. “Bruce? _Boss._ ”

“Ohhh, okay.” 

Raylan leaned against Tim’s house, waiting for Tim--arms laden with puppy pads and kibble--to simultaneously open the door. “Something you find funny about a man’s appreciation for working class hero Bruce Springsteen, America’s greatest gift to mankind?”

“Just thinking how cool you’re gonna sound explaining your dog’s name to your daughter," Tim goaded. " _Well, honey, he’s a 70-year-old billionaire, and daddy loves him very much._ ” 

“Wilson, then.” Raylan said the name with such assurance, Tim wondered if he was meant to grasp the reference. Perhaps Raylan had a particular fondness for the 28th president of the United States. Or Luke or Owen Wilson. 

Unfortunately for Tim, the truth was far less interesting. 

"Janette started that… babbling thing babies do. Winona likes to think she’s talking at six months but it’s nonsense. Anyway, her favorite _word,_ ” Raylan used the term loosely, “is Willie.”

“Winona have a new boyfriend?” Tim thought it a bit much to attribute three extra letters to the child's meager efforts. 

Raylan gave a tired sigh, set the puppy down on the kitchen floor, snatched the adoption papers out of Tim’s hand, and started flipping through them. “What’d they call him at the shelter?”

“Joey,” Tim recalled. 

“Alright, Joe.” Joe didn’t bounce or attempt to play like he had at the shelter, he only shook and stared timidly up at Raylan and Tim. A puddle started to form under him. 

“Aw, he’s broken.” Tim shelved his hands on his hips. “Better take him back.”

Raylan stooped to collect his puppy once more, careful of anything else he planned to drop. “Alright, Shakey Joe, let’s get you acquainted with Tim’s front lawn.” 

Frowning, Tim called after him, “Sure, yeah, I’ll clean this up.”

\- 

The first week had both Raylan and Tim silently convinced this was a terrible idea. 

Shakey Joe peed where he pleased, pooped nervously when he was chastised for peeing, cried when he was left alone, snapped when a hand didn’t run like a motor behind his ears, and was generally a nuisance. 

When Tim disappeared with the dog one evening after work, Raylan doubted ever seeing the mutt again. Instead of returning with nothing to show for himself except muddy bootprints to a shallow grave in the backyard, Tim had to carry Joe inside. He’d taken him on a run and exhausted the creature, ensuring the first quiet night either man had enjoyed in some time. 

Once Joe was finished testing his boundaries, he wasn’t so much the demonic hellspawn Tim initially believed Raylan had welcomed into his home. Joe didn’t bark, or as of yet hadn’t discovered it. He’d still whine and want for a place of prestige among Raylan and Tim on the couch, but his was a quiet desperation. Raylan was quick to give into it, scoop the pup up and allow him to settle into his choice of laps. Tim wouldn’t get so bored petting him, so Joe certainly had his favorites. 

Although he was more prone to following Raylan’s every move--Raylan, who was more likely to palm him a treat or absently rub his belly--it was into Tim’s bedroom that Joe often retired to. Raylan chalked this up to the fact that his one rule was that Joe couldn’t clamor into bed with him. Getting fleas from a stray he’d smuggled into his bedroom at nine years old had been one lesson Raylan learned even before Arlo beat it into him with a belt. 

Tim had no such qualms. He’d gamely allow Joe onto his bed, under the covers, sharing the pillow. Just like with Tom Hanks, Tim gave Joe free reign. Raylan was therefore not surprised to discover Joe got most of his bad habits from Tim: licking faces, jumping, play fighting. Raylan didn’t mount an offensive, however, because Tim did more than his part wearing Joe out every evening with a run, something Raylan wasn’t about to start doing. His tactic was, instead, to overfeed the poor thing. 

(“I should start recording you doin’ this,” Tim said one evening when rain was coming sideways against the house and Joe was too afraid to follow Tim out the door. “Winona deserves to know you’d funnel kibble into your daughter’s mouth if she started crawlin’ too fast.” 

“I call it proactive parenting,” Raylan said, shoveling leftover chicken breast into the dog’s bowl. “And why’s my baby crawlin’ so fast? Where got she to be?”

“Child services?”) 

When Tim and Raylan next found the time and had the inclination to taste a little fresh air, they took Joe with them to Raven Run. Reaching the mouth of the trail. Tim immediately unhooked Joe from his leash, and let him loose. 

“We might never see him again,” Raylan observed, watching his dog peel out into a thick swell of trees. 

“Don’t jinx it,” Tim said, still fighting the good fight of Not Wanting A Dog. 

Since their last visit, the grass had turned crisp and was beginning to yellow. The only green patches were huddled close to tree trunks or spotting the creekbed. 

With nothing of note to discuss, their walk was made in an easy silence. Work was keeping them busy--often pairing them together for various cases, so in their off-hours they tried to quietly separate, return to their respective corners and get out of one another’s heads. Raylan busied himself playing the same song and dance with Winona, testing his boundaries and feeling out their options, while Tim kept occupied with the occasional new acquaintance, although they rarely ever stayed the night anymore. 

The sky was a brilliant blue, and what few clouds exists passed in a misty haze. The woods were open and bright as a result of so many trees losing their leafy cover. When a breeze passed, it _sounded._ That was the only way Raylan could explain it: the rustle of leaves on the ground, the vibrations of bare branches. The woods hummed. Raylan adjusted the collar of his denim jacket, turning it up against the cold. Tim passed by and, seeing the wrinkle in Raylan’s efforts, fixed it. He continued hurriedly down the trail, as if realizing what he’d done and expecting some form of retaliation. 

Raylan just laughed and whistled for Joe. Tim was _weird._

Joe came running with his head lowered and tail between his legs, looking frightened. 

“Raylan!” 

Raylan sped down the path, towards where he had heard Tim’s voice. He happened into a clearing and saw Tim standing in one of the green patches of grass, arms wrapped around a pair of legs and lifting them. The legs were attached to a very young, very dead teenage boy. 

Raylan stared at the face: engorged and gray in color, but still some distorted shape of handsome. He hadn’t been hanging for very long, is what Raylan mostly gathered.

“Let go,” Raylan said, eyes dropping to Tim, who was red-faced and eyes-shut against the boy’s knees. Again, in the tone he used to tell off Joe, Raylan said firmly, “Let go of him, Tim. He’s gone.” 

Between Raylan’s order and the fact that he finally got a whiff of the pungent smell emitting from the body, Tim eventually let the body go slack once again.

“Shit,” Tim grimaced, taking a few backwards steps. He pitted his nose into the crook of his elbow, as though he could snuff out the smell like a fire. 

The kid was young, a teenager. He was dressed in jeans and red sneakers, with a coat zipped up to his neck, just below the rope. Tim thought about how they'd probably seen his mom’s borrowed car in the parking lot. 

Tim asked, “Can we get him down?” But it was useless; just a thing to ask. 

Raylan fished his cell phone out of his back pocket and proceeded to call the proper authorities. As he gave their location, he noticed Tim still staring at the body, marvelling at what a high branch the kid had chosen, how there were still streaks and bits of tree bark on his pants legs from the climb. He hadn’t been a good climber. 

Eyes joining Tim’s in focusing on the slack, swinging body, Raylan supposed that didn’t really matter when a fella was determined. 

Without thinking, Raylan walked over to Tim, put a hand on his shoulder, and led him away.

Tim and Raylan positioned themselves on the trail at either side of the tree, directing the few passersby around the scene and outside a view of the body. Tim always kept his badge in his wallet; Raylan had to convince bemused hikers of his credentials with pure charm. Joe found a stick and was content running back and forth between the two, proudly showing off his treasure. 

Even with a dead body pitted at its center, the woods were quiet and calm, even peaceful. 

The first cop to come down the line was obviously pissed at being stuck with a Saturday morning detail. His name was Oswald Bradley, and two months ago he’d carried out his first arrest, but had forgotten to read the suspect his rights, fucking up weeks of senior officers’ work. He was still paying for it, now. Officer Bradley encountered Raylan, first. 

“So what are you doing here?” Bradley kept a hand on his sidearm at all times; uselessly in this instance, Raylan noted, unless he expected Lexington, Kentucky to be the ground zero of the zombie apocalypse.

“Walking my dog,” Raylan answered, pointing down the path where Tim stood with Joe. Both noticed the newcomer and started towards him and Raylan. 

“Who’s that?”

“My partner. Deputy U.S. Marshals,” Raylan’s tone was short; he’d explained all this in his call. “He’s carrying a badge, you can confirm with our office.”

The young officer raised his eyebrows. “You called your partner first?”

“No, I was here with him.” 

The four had reached the mouth of the clearing together; one more turn would put them under the long shadow of the teenage boy. Stalling the company, Officer Bradley turned to face the two Marshals, his eyebrows still creeping higher towards his hairline. “You were… both… walking your dog?”

Raylan just thought the officer was dense, but Tim knew that tone. 

“No, we were trolling for dick, naturally,” Tim spat, throwing an arm to indicate the still-hanging body. “The mood was just so right.” The young officer turned, saw the scene for the first time, and visibly paled. Tim spared him no mercy. “You wanna maybe pull your thumb outta your ass and do your fucking job?”

Officer Bradley turned to Raylan, who--by some cruel twist of fate--was suddenly _good cop_ in this scenario. “Wha--what do I do?”

“What we’ve been doing,” Raylan answered coolly. He kept an eye on Tim, ensuring no further outbursts. “Wait for the coroner.” 

\- 

Leaning against a maple tree, awaiting the slow shuffle of bureaucracy to cross paths with the scene and free up the remainder of his day, Raylan allowed himself a moment to let his mind wander. He didn’t want to think that Tim had a problem or was any more sensitive to gruesome acts than anyone else. What erupted from Tim in an angry growl was there in Raylan, too, sinking deep into his stomach and making him sorry and tired. 

Tim had seen more of it, broader bands than something as definite as a hanging. He saw his Ranger buddies spiral out of control with drugs or mania, killing themselves and others slowly, just enough each time that the payout was still something spectacular. 

Suicide never entered Raylan’s understanding in that way. Even in Harlan--drinking too much or getting high on whatever was around was something to _do._ You did it until it killed you, but that was never the goal. You did it _in spite of_ its dangers. It wasn’t suicide--it was living. 

Which is why Raylan understood Boyd’s position in dealing that shit. He was making a living. 

Tim’s conception was formed much later in life. He shot at people to stay alive, and didn’t understand turning the rifle on oneself, or anything of that ilk. Skulking around the scene, however, and throwing the odd glance back at the body, showed Tim rethinking some things.

The temperature dropped. Raylan stuck his bare hands under his armpits and watched the trail. 

\- 

Then there was the week after that, when Tim caught a bug that had been going around and spent the weekend starved and sick and sweating and freezing, all the while wearing his comforter like a cape. His face was paler than usual, pink lips lost to a sallow gray color. All number of things streamed out of his person, and Raylan kept his distance. Joe, alternatively, kept close to Tim, occasionally licking at the corners of Tim’s mouth where an encore of his meals sometimes made an appearance.

As part of his illness routine, Tim carried around tiny paper cups of microwavable soup, sipping at the contents and breathing in the steam like a makeshift humidifier. He never managed to finish an entire serving, however, so the little red cups littered the house, broth and noodles congealing after sitting out too long. 

Raylan could tell Tim was seriously sick by how off-color his jokes were. At the height of his vomiting fit sometime around 9am Saturday morning, Tim muttered something about it being the black plague, and maybe he’d contracted it from the boy in the park. 

Raylan lived a lot of his life in self-imposed darkness. He didn’t appreciate hearing that kind of shit out loud. 

Where some months ago Raylan might have said something, told Tim off in some way, now he just kept his mouth shut, and threw a box of tissues at the younger Marshal from across the room. 

Tim let the box bounce off his shoulder--too preoccupied anticipating a sneeze. 

He stooped to collect it, then shuffled back towards his room, his comforter trailing behind him. 

“Are these for my mouth?” he mumbled, still in an aching and sleepless daze. He inelegantly jammed a finger into his mouth, digging at some noodle stuck between his gums and his cheek. “I think my teeth are sweating.” 

\- 

It was only natural, then, that on Tim’s first day returning to work after five days of pure misery, he’d run into someone as stubborn as his flu had been. 

Tim took the stairs, convinced if he were to relapse into sickness, it’d be due to stepping into some crowded elevator. On the third floor, he happened upon Winona--well, Tim didn’t know her maiden name. More pressing than that was the fact that she’d clearly returned to Lexington, and was once again wearing one of her smart outfits suitable for court. It was getting wrinkled, however, as she sat dejectedly on one of the steps, her purse and briefcase an upturned mess on the stairs below her. 

Tim scooped up a tube of lipstick, three tampons, a box of chocolate covered raisins, and a pair of car keys as he made his hesitant approach. 

“Hey, Winona.” 

She started, then covered her face. “Jesus _fuck._ ” She attempted to smooth her hair and regain some miticom of composure, but her face seemed perpetually flushed and it was clear to Tim that running into one of her ex-husband’s friends in such a state was her breaking point. 

“Y’okay there… on the steps…”

She took one look at Tim and burst into tears.

“I got my old job back,” she sobbed, “But only ‘cause that disgusting, speedo-wearing psycho has a mother fixation and thinks he’ll see me whip my tits out,” she sobbed harder, “But I need the work, you know? And where else is gonna let me tote a baby around?” 

Gesturing loosely to Winona’s spilled belongings, Tim said, “I didn’t see her on my way up…” 

“She’s with my sister in Tennessee,” Winona said, missing the joke. “God. I didn’t think I’d be such a wreck away from her the first time.” She wiped at her eyes and was mindful of her mascara. “Raylan doesn’t know. I didn’t want to let him find us a place because I don’t _know_ if I can do that with him.” Tears threatened to spill over again, but Winona took a deep breath and held them at bay. “And now I can’t even find him! I went to his hotel and that _shitty bar_ and I can’t find him.”

“He’s runnin’ down a fugitive with Rachel out near London,” Tim explained, then heard himself say, “But he’s been staying in the spare bedroom at my place.” And worse still, “It’s real close.” He tried to motion open-handed and sincere-like, but his fists were still full of tampons. “You can go there now, if you want, and wait for him.” 

“Shit,” Winona said quietly, her tears finally subsiding. “Shit, shit, _shit._ He told me that. We _talk_ about that. _I knew that._ Where’s my fuckin’ head at?” 

“Bring the baby up,” Tim said with a confidence he couldn’t quite place. “Raylan can take the couch. It’s fine. It’d be fine.” Part of that, Tim knew, was an effort to convince himself. “He wants to see the baby--” Tim racked his brain like Raylan had once done, at a loss for the name, “--Janette.” 

Winona looked even more miserable--not at the prospect, necessarily, but that one of her ex-husband’s coworkers was so ready to offer it. She smoothed down her hair again. Nodding her tacit agreement, she started to ramble, “I’m at this shitty hotel and it’s just-- _not_ \--where I want to be, where I feel good taking Janette… I’d get a better hotel but I’m already renting a car ‘cause mine’s in the shop…” 

“So that’s a yes?” Tim cut her off. “I’ll drive, you follow? Alright?” 

Winona sniffed. “Alright.”

“Alright.” Tim surveyed the mess they still had to clean up. He gave the box of chocolate covered raisins a little shake. “Can I have some of these?”

\- 

Twenty minutes later, Winona had called her sister to bring the baby up, accepted the house key from Tim’s set, and met Joe. 

Tim went back to work and busied himself with a few cases before Raylan returned with the inevitable onslaught of questions. Heading them off with a text, Tim was able to remain undisturbed at the office until well after six in the evening, when Art shooed him out. 

Wary of returning home, Tim didn’t know quite what he was walking into--what he had, in effect, staged. Tim had to will himself not to step inside his own home with a hand resting on his sidearm. 

The television was on. The house was well lit. No signs of a struggle. Tim stepped quietly into the kitchen and got a beer, less in reverence to his long workday, but in case he needed a distraction from whatever marital meltdown was undoubtedly playing out in his living room, staining his carpet and making a murder weapon of his nice lamp. (Such a nice lamp.)

Instead, he saw Raylan and Winona joined on the couch, their daughter nestled in Winona’s arms. “Hey, Tim,” Winona smiled warmly. She was still embarrassed by her earlier behavior, but had chosen instead to pretend it never happened, and Tim was just fine with that. “You want to hold her?”

Tim approached, beer in hand, and took a contemplative sip. “I’m content to just look. Yep, it’s a baby.” He looked at Raylan. “And here I was thinking you were lyin’ all this time, feeding me some sorry excuse as to why you’ve let yourself go.”

“You gotta smell her,” Raylan urged, and Tim inched closer still. 

Janette had Winona’s big, grey-green eyes and--as of yet--only a curl of Raylan’s dark hair. The rest of her--pink faced and fleshy--looked more reminiscent of a honeyed ham than a person. Tim leaned in and sniffed her, then pulled back, shocked. “Jesus.”

“Yep,” Raylan intoned proudly. “We agreed to keep her until the smell wears off.” 

“That’s fair,” Tim agreed, then went in for another whiff. “Goddamn.”

“Right?” Raylan goaded, feeling vindicated. “Would have thought they smelled like shit.” Receiving a smart look from Winona, Raylan defended, “For as often as she does it, Winona. You would know.”

“And on that glowing account of my talents,” she said, handing the child off to Raylan and rising from the couch, “I’mma take a nap. Think you can handle her for a few hours?” 

Raylan squinted at the infant thoughtfully. “She already shit today?”

Winona laughed out loud. “Like she only takes _one._ ” 

Passing Tim, Winona pressed her hand to his shoulder and gave it a little squeeze that said _thank you._

Tim waited until she’d closed Raylan’s door behind her before turning to his fellow Marshal and asking, “Think I got a chance with her?” 

“About as much a chance as I do at the moment.” 

Tim raised his eyebrows. “Shit. What’d you do?”

“Didn’t answer my phone,” Raylan rolled his eyes. “I was apprehending a fugitive. Kinda had my hands full.”

Tim moved in on Winona’s vacated seat. “Way I heard it, that was all Rachel.”

“I helped,” Raylan said, unable to argue very passionately on the matter. 

Janette blinked her wide eyes open and stared at Raylan and Tim. She didn’t babble or wriggle or grasp at the air with her tiny pudgy hands. She just stared, steady and sure. 

“Can we drink?” Tim asked, uncertain. He didn’t like the way this baby was looking at him. 

“I think we have to.” 

Tim checked on Joe who was locked away in the empty basement, then fetched a few glasses and a bottle of bourbon for himself and Raylan. They drank slowly as they watched the child wriggle and look around--her two favorite pastimes. 

Tim watched the way Raylan looked at his child--he looked confused, like he couldn’t imagine something so perfect and beautiful being the result of his and Winona’s fucked up selves. Maybe the evidence would bear out in time, but until she started throwing back the kind of liquor her daddy enjoyed, she was the picture of untouched innocence. 

“Do you love her?” Tim asked, inclining his head slightly to indicate Winona, tucked away in Raylan’s room and napping fitfully. He felt they’d both had enough that such a question didn’t sound hard or harsh; just curious. Still, it was a juvenile question in its way--Tim even strangeuly felt he was asking on the child’s behalf. 

“Yeah,” Raylan said. If he thought the question was out of place, he didn’t convey that to Tim. “I really do. Always have.” 

“But you can’t make her happy,” Tim pressed, then frowned. “I mean,” He grasped at but found no better explanation. “You can’t. Obviously.”

Raylan frowned. “Gee, thanks Tim.”

The alcohol was doing things for Tim, urging him to soldier on to get at some answer he’d deemed necessary. He messily buttressed his argument, saying: “She left you, then divorced you, left you again, left you again _for real_ …” 

“Again, thanks for the refresher. I’d damn near forgotten the last decade of my life.” 

Tim sipped at his bourbon. Like he should have guessed--Raylan had no ready answer for his relationship with Winona. “You’re welcome.” 

They dropped back into silence--their usual mode of operations, so both men were at ease in it.

“Aw, shit--” Raylan winced and lifted his daughter off his lap. “Cramp. Shit. Hold her.”

Raylan stood and massaged his calf--and continued to do so, too, long after it stopped hurting. The sight of Tim managing a baby was something he couldn’t witness so fleetingly. He looked like the appropriately young father, the image Raylan himself would never strike with his child. He looked both parts excited and scared, where Raylan felt he himself only met the latter requirement. This baby--beautiful and sweet-smelling as she was--terrified him. Tim handled her carefully, his big hands dwarfing her already tiny frame. He made a silly face at the child, then laughed when she looked mildly horrified. 

“Feeling that mortal coil?” Tim asked as Raylan returned to the couch. 

“Always.” Raylan didn’t gesture for the child, but Tim was quick to hand her back, anyway. “It’s an old baseball injury.”

“Still clinging to that tired excuse?”

“Always,” Raylan grinned. “Though your question threw me, some.”

“I was just curious,” Tim said. “‘Cause you’re sleeping with other women.” 

Raylan lobbed Tim a look, steely cold, like he could convince Tim otherwise without even saying a word. Tim took in the whole thing--the set jaw, smooth face, and half-lidded eyes--and huffed out a laugh. 

“I’ve been watching you for six months,” Tim told him, leaning in conspiratorially. With a gravelly voice that accounted for every cigarette he had ever smoked, Tim said, “I know when your _balls itch._ ”

Tim could have been blind to the fact that Raylan was a little looser some mornings than others--some afternoons, too--and still known Raylan was sleeping around. It was what the man did. He was good at it. 

Tim was fairly certain they’d danced around this conversation before. 

Raylan’s stare cut to his door, then back to Tim. “Well don’t--” _say anything._

Tim heard him. “I know. I was just,” Tim shrugged a shoulder and rested the mouth of his beer bottle near the corner of his mouth, like he wasn’t ready for it yet. “Curious.”

Uncomfortable with this conversation hovering so close to his bedroom and Winona, Raylan growled, “You know what they say about curiosity.”

Tim gave an exaggerated frown. “Too soon, Raylan.” 

The baby started to babble and fidget. Raylan put his glass down while Tim refilled his own. As if to compensate for airing Raylan’s dirty laundry, Tim shared some of his own.

“I was gonna marry a girl.”

“No shit?” Raylan asked, wanting to know the story behind _that._

“At sixteen,” Tim said it like he knew the experience now for the sorry joke it was. Less humorously, he added, “She was pregnant.” 

Tim remembered Julie, then Julie’s brother, thinking about him to get hard for her. With her hair cut short, she looked enough like him. The condom tore, and with it shredded their sanity for the next two months. He smoked more in those sixty days than he did in the next dozen years of his life. Tim was relieved when she lost it; he thought they both were, but Julie was devastated. He left for Basic Training shortly after that, never saw her again. He looked her up, though. Facebook was as good as any federal database.

She seemed all right. Had two kids, was smiling a mile wide in every picture… Tim could relax, knowing he hadn’t somehow ruined her. 

He sometimes wanted to get in touch with her, but always thought better of it. Maybe the three months she spent in love with a boy bound for the war was as embarrassing for her as pining for her college-bound-on-a-swimming-scholarship older brother was for Tim. Maybe she didn’t want to know if the father of a heavy period ever made it to the war, or made it back alive. 

“She lost it,” Tim said, forcing himself back into the here and now, with Raylan and Raylan’s child, sharing the couch in Tim’s little Kentucky home. “I mean, it wasn’t much of anything by that time. Kind of just… sloughed out, how she told it.” Tim emptied his glass. “And I never touched pussy again.” 

Raylan bounced his daughter on his knee. “It’s troublesome stuff.” 

Tim nodded and took stock of the diaper bag on the floor at Raylan’s feet, the car seat-like contraption complete with colorful ornaments. He remembered the spread of baby food jars in his fridge, next to his beers.

They were just things, Tim told himself. They weren’t even his. “You okay with this?”

“I don’t think she’d have agreed if I’d done the asking,” Raylan said quietly, his eyes trained on his child. He glanced up at Tim. “Thanks.”

\- 

At four on a Wednesday morning--time enough that Winona felt she and Janette were welcome in their stay, but was quick to note that long-term accommodations had been made elsewhere--Winona stepped out of Raylan’s bedroom in a little pair of black panties and a thin, droopy t-shirt. Her ex-husband was asleep. Her hungry child was full-bellied and sated. 

Her benefactor was awake.

Tim, dressed and sat in the dark at his little kitchen table eating a bowl of Cheerios, stared at her. 

“Whoa. Sorry,” Tim dropped his gaze to the floor, and his voice to a whisper. “Sorry.” 

“Shit, no, it’s my fault.” Winona waved a dismissive hand. “I swear I’ve lost all sense of decorum. Probably ‘cause I couldn’t see my legs for four months.” 

“Okay.” Tim frowned at his cereal. Winona proceeded to pad barefoot into the kitchen and collect a yogurt cup from the fridge. “Can you see them now?”

“Huh? Yeah, of course.” They were once against toned and hairless, like Winona liked them best but hadn’t bothered while with child. 

“You’ll note the lack of pants, then.”

Winona laughed. “Oh, sweetie, I don’t give a shit.” The smile on her lips faded into something uncertain. “Do you mind?”

“No,” Tim answered cautiously, feeling like there was a very wrong way to answer that question. 

Winona couldn’t help but notice Tim still hadn’t given her a second glance. “This ain’t like… out of respect for Raylan.”

“ _Hell no,_ ” Tim said--again, to his bowl of cereal. 

Winona smiled and tried again. “What are you doing up?”

“Just got in,” Tim answered through a mouthful of Cheerios. “You?” 

“I get restless after I feed her,” Winona explained. 

“Raylan can’t do that?”

“He ain’t got the proper equipment.”

It was a joke--a good one, in Winona’s opinion--but Tim just nodded, accepting the anatomy lesson.

“Real cute house,” Winona said. She got the distinct feeling Tim wasn’t interested in her company.

“Thanks,” Tim said, drawing another spoonful to his mouth. “I saw that very description in the paper and thought, _that’s for me._ ” 

Winona knew otherwise-- _the truth_ \--about how Tim came to have the little house with the extra room, but chose to play ignorant. She knew Rachel before either Raylan or Tim came along into the office, by the mere virtue of working in the same building and finding that their jobs crossed paths at times. Winona was less familiar with Tim, who had always been polite but a little clipped in his attitude. That was born out here, too--he was never overly familiar, a characteristic Winona appreciated at the office, but found a little strange in the man’s own home. 

She remembered Tim in _her_ home, sleeping on the floor of the downstairs study because he’d deemed the adjacent backdoor the easiest means of entering the home. She remembered, also, Raylan taking a bullet to the side in some backhills shoot-out in Harlan, and how he’d later mentioned in passing that there was another coming his way, “but Tim sorted that.” 

Winona took her yogurt cup and joined Tim at the table. The only light in the house came from a single bulb above the front door, but she could just make out Tim’s hunched shoulders and expressionless face. She mulled over what she’d wanted to ask him for months, but hadn’t--not because she couldn’t find an opportune moment, but because the question reflected so poorly on her.

She dunked her spoon three times, thoughtful. “Raylan said you knew where Gary was after he disappeared… and before he turned up on my lawn.” 

“I looked into it,” Tim allowed.

“You thought Raylan killed Gary?” 

“No,” Tim admitted. “I just thought it was a dick move to leave the house when he ought to have been guarding it.”

Winona hadn’t heard that part of the story, but it sounded enough like Raylan that she didn’t doubt Tim’s telling. Shrugging a shoulder, she said, “He runs head first into things.”

“You’re awful quick to forgive,” Tim observed. 

“You haven’t?”

“He didn’t do his job. He left you at risk, left Rachel at risk…” Tim trailed off; the fact that Raylan had promised he wouldn’t take off seemed a moot point now, but Tim hadn’t forgiven him for that, either.

Winona rolled her shoulders and leaned back, interested. Her t-shirt hugged her breasts. “You and Rachel aren’t a… thing.”

Tim quirked his eyebrows and huffed out a small laugh. “Don’t go asking her that. She’d be offended.” 

Now feeling stuck in Winona’s earlier position--empty-handed save for a spoon and a joke that didn’t go over well--Tim tried to engage her, anyway. “Any more thieving exploits?”

Winona pursed her lips and looked straight at Tim despite the fact that he--as of yet--hadn’t done the same for her. “You know about that, huh?”

“Yeah, I know about that.”

She shook her head like she couldn’t fathom that insane string of events, even now. “That... Was a complete lapse of sense.”

“Raylan seems to inspire that in people.”

Winona smiled, thankful Tim didn’t press any further on the subject. “He ever inspire that in you?”

Tim scrubbed a hand over his face, tired. “Only about consistently, for the past six months.”

\- 

Some hours later, Winona was regretting her late-night snack. She smoothed her hands over her belly and hips, then glanced at Raylan, who was watching the show from the bed. “Do I look okay?”

He grinned, outright _giddily_. “You kidding me?” 

With a roll of her eyes, Winona explained her run-in with Tim that very night, finishing lamely, “I dunno. I thought everything was back in working order.” 

“I could check under the hood, if you want,” Raylan offered. 

“A true gentleman,” Winona intoned, hands on her own ass. “I’m serious.”

“Troublemaker,” Raylan accused of her tiredly, sitting up in bed and adding in a teasing tone, “Good to know motherhood hasn’t changed you.” It was never the case in their marriage that Winona sought the attention of other men, but loathe as she was to admit it, the pregnancy had done a number on her self image.

Raylan could see that now, and funny as the situation was to _him,_ he didn’t like to see Winona addled with undue concerns. He ventured out of bed--slowly, easily, because he was scheduled for a prisoner transport, and had decided to make a late morning of it--never mind that Tim was scheduled for the same transport and was likely already at the office. 

Raylan wrapped his arms around Winona’s middle and kissed her shoulder. “You’re beautiful,” he told her. 

She hummed--and not in agreement, neither. Raylan had long-ago learned the frequency of her hums. 

He kissed her other shoulder. “Listen, this ain’t for you to spread around but, ah, Tim’s gay.”

Winona spun out of Raylan’s arms and slapped his chest, excited. “I knew it! Goddamnit, _I knew it._ ”

Raylan rubbed his sore chest. “Congrats?”

“He’s so cute but way too quiet about it, you know?”

“So cute,” Raylan echoed dryly, already very much regretting sharing this fact with Winona. 

“Is he seein’ anybody?”

“I don’t know, Winona,” Raylan answered, adding, “Not… consistently. He might have a boyfriend or something. In Canada.”

Winona snorted. “Well that’s a shitty lie.” She found her purse on the dresser and dug around for her cell phone. “We should set him up.” She left the bedroom, certain her phone was tucked away in the couch cushions. 

Raylan followed suit, pleading uselessly, “Winona, _no._ I gotta live with him.”

She waved him off, finding her cell and copying down a number on a scrap of paper, bouncing happily all the while. “It’s fine, I know somebody perfect.” 

Raylan sighed and tried to mentally mount his last defensive argument. He had all the pieces ordered--a stern word about Tim being a private person, a gentle reminder that he was doing them both a favor--when the man himself seemed to appear out of nowhere, hair-mussed and eyes bleary against his bedroom door. It was a state that, even living with the guy, Raylan rarely saw. “What are you doing here?”

Tim hooked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating his bedroom. “Sleeping,” he said. “Stakeout went long. Art gave me ‘til noon.”

“That’s considerate,” Winona teased, smiling at and looking upon Tim in a new light. 

Tim frowned instinctively. 

“Prisoner transport’s at ten,” Raylan reminded him. 

“Well hell, Raylan, you can do that on your own. I mean, statistically you can’t, but I have faith.” 

Raylan continued to press his case--if only because Tim would complete the paperwork in the car, ensuring they could take an extra long lunch. “You’re up, aren’t you?”

Tim gestured with an open hand to the entirety of himself. “I’ve got to put my face on.”

Winona stepped in, presenting Tim with the number she’d procured from her phone. “Well, when you don’t look like shit, you should give this number a call.” 

“What,” Tim said, still half-asleep.

Winona smiled triumphantly. “Daniel. He’s a legal aid in my office. Sweetest thing. And hand to God, absolutely gorgeous.” 

“That’s what I look for in legal council.” Tim mumbled, then it clicked. He craned his neck and sought out Raylan. _“Dude.”_

“She already knew,” Raylan said, his hands raised in surrender. “And she’s very proud, so don’t go denying it.” 

Tim looked at the scrap of paper and then back at Winona. He shook his head just once--wide and slow--and pressed the paper back into her hand. 

“Don’t do that,” he told her firmly and then, lighter, and with a strained smile, he added, “I’m doin’ just fine.”

-

But Winona did exactly _that,_ and sufficient to say--she didn’t come by her efforts too honestly.

Figuring Tim was still at his place around noon, Winona called and pleaded that he bring up Janette’s baby bag for her, and as payment, Winona promised she’d have lunch for him. Tim understood this as _endless punishment,_ and said so, but nonetheless gathered the necessary items and brought them to Winona’s old office. By the most coincidental of coincidences, Winona had Daniel in her office, helping with some legal briefings.

Daniel was as advertized. Sweet-faced with giant brown eyes and a perpetual, barely-there smile. He was dressed like a Log Cabin Republican recruiter; just a little too cute, but tongue-in-cheek enough to pull it off. He wore glasses Tim instinctively knew were cool.

“Is this a family reunion?” he asked, eyeing Tim and the baby bag speculatively. 

“Hell no,” Tim droned, but Winona’s laugh drowned him out. 

“Oh, no! No, no. This is Tim! He’s a friend of my husband’s and was so, _so_ kind to pick something up for me.”

Tim brandished the baby bag. “Diapers for the newborn king,” he said, then cast a warm look at Winona. “Your adult brand, too. I know you get the shits after lunch.” 

Her jaw set in steely defiance; she wouldn’t let Tim spoil what was in his best interests. “Tim’s a big… kidder.” She jockeyed her attention to Daniel. “You two have probably met--Tim works a few floors up. U.S. Marshals.”

“You know, I think I’ve seen you around,” Daniel allowed, extending his hand to shake with Tim’s. 

“Yep,” Tim said, and left it at that. He waited until Daniel felt as though his departure was not only expected, but necessary. Tim parted with a simple request, spoken coolly and with a faint smile: “Stop it, Winona, or I will fuck every last one of your friends. Hand to God.” 

\- 

Tim didn’t think it was fair that he had to see the guy again so soon after Winona tried to knot their dicks together in holy matrimony, but there he was: occupying the same elevator Tim was while on an errand to the evidence lockers.

“Hi,” Daniel said, sounding about as friendly as Tim had in their previous meeting.

“Hey.”

“Sorry about--well. You know.” Daniel fiddled with the cuff of his dress shirt--a pale blue, jutting out of his orange sweater. Tim thought he looked like a J. Crew model--clean-cut in a way that was instinctively distressing, like he’d stepped out of a 1950s educational video about teens and the dangers of improperly hemmed trouser legs. “I don’t ask her to do that, just so... yeah.” 

Tim folded his arms across his chest, feeling a little self-conscious about his own shirt--cotton, snug, a little underwhelming for work, but what the hell, nothing he did called for a three piece suit. “I figured.” 

“You want to,” Daniel made a rude gesture that clashed with his preppy outfit. “Real quick? Bathroom on the third floor locks from the inside.” 

“No,” Tim said, staring straight ahead at the elevator doors and willing them to open. “Thanks.”

“After work, then?”

Keeping his tone cool and even, Tim queried, “I thought you didn’t ask Winona to do this.”

“I don’t,” Daniel insisted. “But God bless her enthusiasm.”

The elevator doors opened and Tim disappeared into the poorly lit basement floor. Upon finishing his errand, he found Daniel waiting for him outside the evidence lockers. He had collected some files from the adjacent storage room. It was literally _one file,_ Tim noticed, which made him think of Raylan and the old stuffed envelope game. “Listen, Dan--”

“Daniel,” Daniel corrected, falling into step with Tim back towards the elevators.

Tim frowned at him. “Strike two,” he intoned, then continued, “Listen, _Daniel,_ I kind of have a rule,” he mulled over his next statement, attempting to parse its prudish-to-pragmatic ratio, “About not doing that with anyone at work.”

Daniel halted at the elevators; neither pressed the call button. “Honey, look at me. I’m gayer than a dick on fire and _Judge Reardon_ is still trying to set me up with his daughter.” Daniel cocked his head in a way someone had once told him was cute and endearing. “No one in this entire shitty state is gonna know.” 

Tim had to appreciate the effort. “A dick on fire, huh?”

“Is that not appealing?” Daniel smiled crookedly; also cute, also endearing, which made Tim think it was just part of his personality. “Like racing stripes. Some _sweet decals._ You seem like the type.” 

“And what type is that,” Tim pressed, catching the note of challenge in Daniel’s observation--an unspoken request to _prove me wrong._

Figuring the opportunity was shot to shit anyway, Daniel answered honestly, “The kind who’d be good at it.” His stare dropped unabashedly to Tim’s pink lips. “Like, unreasonably good. Then after, you’d tell me _this never happened._ ” 

Tim quirked a tight, unseemly smile. “Oh, honey,” he echoed mockingly, “I’d never let you forget.” 

\- 

Tim dropped the items Rachel had requested on her desk, not sparing her a passing glance. Her glare followed him, however, after she eyed her watch. “What took you so long?” 

Raylan took one look at Tim and had to stifle a shout. He knew that purse-lipped face of satisfaction. It lingered most mornings after Tim hosted a visitor. “Oh my god,” Raylan said to himself, shaking his head. Tim ignored him, and produced only a weak shrug for Rachel before dropping soundlessly into his seat. 

“What,” Rachel said, looking between the two. Raylan wondered who picked that up from whom--a single word demanding a full explanation. If Rachel had adopted it from Tim, well--she pulled it off better. 

“Nothing,” Raylan insisted, then tried to cover his outburst, saying, “Just... finding Jesus.”

Rachel raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. She noted the loose sheets of colorful paper littering Raylan’s desk. “In a Chinese take-out menu?”

“They’ve got some real similar ideas,” Raylan said, and moved to share a menu with Tim through the plastic partition between their desks. 

“The fuqi feipian,” Tim agreed, recalling a dish from Raylan’s present reading material, “Is heavenly.” 

Raylan’s antics coupled with Tim’s bone-dry delivery had Rachel rolling her eyes. “This is exactly how I expect you both live,” she said. “Forgetting to eat or sleep, just laughing at each others’ dumb jokes.” 

“We’ve been workshoping this material for weeks, Rachel,” Tim insisted, spinning lazily in his chair to face his fellow Marshals.

“For you,” Raylan added. 

“Night and day. We are _diligent._ ” Tim punctuated each word of the latter sentiment with his hand, fingers open and forked like a terrifyingly large spider, touching his desk once, twice, three times. 

Rachel regretted ever getting Tim and Raylan started. Some days she had to catch herself from confusing names--Tim, Raylan, Nick; they were all interchangeable, now. She shelved one hand on her hip and made herself clear: “You know what I’d really enjoy? Fewer leisurely sojourns when you’ve offered to run down to evidence for me.” She looked at Tim in particular. “I do expect you to _run._ ”

Raylan grinned at him, but Tim knew this was no laughing matter. “Yes ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops I’ve made a terrible error. Apparently babies lose their baby smell after six weeks. So it probably did smell like shit. I’M NOT A BABY EXPERT.
> 
> Also, shit gets real in the next chapter. LIFE RETURNS TO ITS NATURAL STATE OF ENDLESS SORROW.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the misery power hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Happy holidays!

Winter was a frustrating time at the office; fugitives seemed to register the cold, and laid dormant. For the Marshals, that meant more time at their desks, pulling old files, or running down witnesses and known associates who knew this game, knew they were a last resort, and knew the Marshals had nothing. Sharp attitudes wrought hurt feelings and broken noses and accusations of police brutality. 

Very quickly, people grew anxious for spring. 

Everyone wanted an out. Winona got hers after just four days crashing at Tim’s place with Raylan. A girlfriend’s aunt’s boyfriend’s sister was vacationing in Rio and Winona was welcome to her home, to “house sit” her plants and daughter’s hermit crab, Franklin. In the meantime, Winona and Raylan would look for a place. 

Tim didn't assume for one second that Raylan would be boxing up his few belongings and relinquishing his company so swiftly. Having thought things through, Winona wanted to feel settled in her home with her daughter before inviting Raylan into their lives again. Raylan was naturally sore about that, but played up the charm and pretended to understand her reasoning. 

Although he saw much more of his ex-wife and child, Raylan's chilly mood after Winona's arrival--but unwavering seclusion--carried on into winter. 

The first snow was heavy and part of a storm system rolling across the entire country. It started around three on a Friday afternoon, and near about everything from court hearings to filing arrests came to an easy hold. Snow filled the streets and every surface it touched well on into the evening. 

Raylan liked the change of pace, liked how slow and quiet the snow made Lexington. He’d tire of its presence eventually, but stacked finely on the trees behind Tim’s home, ushered into deep banks near his basement door, and swollen under his porch steps, Raylan thought the snow was perfectly fine. Tim held no such favor; even under countless layers, he always felt too cold. Worse, snow reminded him of Afghanistan; he’d never seen it before going there. 

The snow fell harder as night progressed. Raylan could have easily turned his head and noted that fact out Tim’s glass doors, but instead only eyed the scroll on the bottom of the television screen as he watched a film Tim seemed to like, but Raylan just couldn’t get into. (“Mystery Team. Is that like one of your little comic books?”) They switched to football, but after one quarter Tim splintered off into his bedroom with a book, anyway, with a side trip to the bathroom for a couple of Advil. Meaning to save his funds or not, Raylan could have sprung for a small television set of his own. Thing was, he had rarely used the one in his hotel and only watched now when Tim was immersed in something, which was admittedly quite often. Raylan could place Tim’s viewing habits as profoundly juvenile, profoundly pornographic, or Pixar. A fourth category existed in which Raylan contributed, some distant plane of their shared consciousness that reflected back in Tim’s Netflix queue: 80s cult classics. They were the stuff of Raylan’s misspent youth, but Tim was either too young or had missed their heyday entirely. Still, Tim enjoyed the hokey humor and gritty visuals, and Raylan liked the sense of familiarity, the way the films returned him to his living room floor, with a stolen handful of candy from the general store and a wad of tissues in case the lead character's girlfriend was particularly busty. 

After the football game ended and Raylan changed channels, such was the turn of his evening--with the exception of the tissues and stolen goods. Since his early teens, Raylan had developed phenomenal self control, at least in those departments. 

He’d always been a night owl, though. His mother’s words, echoed later by his Aunt Helen. Long after Tim had gone to sleep, joined by Joe in some tangled appropriation of covers and mattress, Raylan was still watching that 1985 masterpiece, _Re-Animator_. 

Raylan startled some upon hearing a heavy _thud_ in Tim’s room, followed by Joe’s whimpering and half-hearted barks (which sounded near indistinguishable from a squeaky door hinge and were a source of great entertainment for both Raylan and Tim). The subsequent grunting out of Tim suggested he’d merely dropped from the bed, but Joe’s barking persisted. Raylan had put the matter out of his mind when suddenly Tim scrambled out of his room only wearing underpants and an ever-present threadbare t-shirt. He carried something heavy in his hand. Raylan didn’t look to see what; he only knew by the slope of Tim’s shoulder, the way his body seemed weighed when he moved. The room was dark, save for the glow of the television screen, so there wasn’t much of Tim to see apart from his pale limbs and face.

“Did you see it?” Tim asked, hardly even looking at Raylan as he spoke. The pits of his arms and the dip in his chest were dark, and his hairline gleamed with beads of sweat. His pupils were blown and his eyes seemed to catch the light whichever way they darted.

Without waiting for an answer, Tim crossed the living room with long, purposeful strides and threw open the sliding glass door with enough force that Raylan thought it might crack. Barefoot, Tim stepped out onto the deck, then raced down the stairs. 

Raylan slowly rose from the couch. He stepped cautiously to the open door, where the immediate gust of cold hit him like a brick wall. 

“What the fuck?” Raylan murmured to himself, then louder--like he was calling out a question for Tim. _“What the fuck?”_

It was dark and for one wild moment, looking around aimlessly in a whirlwind of fat, wet flakes of snow and needle-sharp drops of icy rain, Raylan thought Tim had _run off._ But there he was, at the end of his property, sat in the snow. 

Raylan took the stairs and waded through the quickly accumulating snow. Everything before him was in a swirling haze of ice and cold, except Tim, the only spot of color in his red t-shirt and pink flesh, unprotected whereas Raylan still had his jeans, shirt, and boots to shield him from the elements. Raylan approached Tim carefully. His underpants were soaked through from where he’d sat flat on his ass just before the end of his yard spelled out into tall grass and trees. He was breathing in gasps and it reminded Raylan of an asthmatic boy he knew in his childhood. His chest heaved, drawing air in and jettisoning it out far too fast for Tim to gain any benefit. 

Raylan stopped, dropped a knee into wet snow, and put a hand on Tim’s shoulder. It was the second time he’d extended such a gesture, and it still didn’t feel right.

Tim shared that sentiment, immediately twisting and striking Raylan in the chest with his forearm. He stared for a minute at Raylan, who’d caught and balanced himself so as not to drop, like Tim, into wet and freezing depths. 

“Did you see it?” Tim asked again, deadly serious. 

Cold lacing his bones, Raylan had to fight not being short with Tim. Thinking this was some bizarre joke was a luxury he couldn’t even imagine; he needed a gentle touch, now. “Tim, there is nothing out here.” 

Tim’s entire demeanor changed. Instead of frantic and wired, he’d dropped into dark and sure tones--the kinds best suited for issuing threats. Even his breathing calmed, falling to barely a murmur. “Keep lying.”

Raylan saw that Tim was hugging his glock to his chest with one hand. With snow falling as heavily as it was, some had accumulated along the crevice where the barrel alligned with Tim’s chest. Raylan thought about how easy it’d be for him to turn in inwards. Even now, if his finger slipped on the trigger, Tim would likely blow his own left arm away. 

The notion that Tim was anything but steady and a sure shot didn’t carry much weight. Raylan wouldn’t have given it a second thought if Tim hadn’t been shaking from-- _what,_ really, Raylan could only guess. The cold, some form of mania, whatever had his pupils blown fat and full. In truth, Raylan felt about as sure of things as Tim _looked,_ sat in his backyard, just after midnight, in his underpants.

After noting that Tim had a gun and was not likely to misfire, Raylan’s mind took the next logical leap: where Tim intended to point and shoot. 

Raylan shuffled closer in the snow and slowly rounded Tim so that he wasn’t coming at the gun from the side or behind, but head-on. At least then, if Tim took aim, it wouldn’t likely be at himself. 

Raylan did this swift enough to fool himself into thinking he knew what he was doing. He could talk down a manic fugitive, sure--he’d learned a few tricks in his years, but Tim wasn’t some crummy, fuck-up fugitive. Tim had a lot to lose. 

“It’s cold out here, huh?” Raylan started easy and slow. “Too cold for a couple of southern boys like ourselves. Too cold for most anything.” Raylan took a moment to wet his lips and wipe his eyes; heavy snowflakes were caught up in his lashes. Tim’s, too, but the younger Marshal didn’t so much as flinch against the bracing cold. Raylan took hold of Tim for a third time, fingers digging into muscled shoulder, willing Tim to see his meaning, to snap from his daze or dream or nightmare. 

As he feared, Tim did not respond favorably to Raylan’s hold. He turned the gun on Raylan, pointing the barrel square between his eyes. Tim seemed to see through him. As he stared and kept his piece level, his breathing quickened. A cloud of visible air clung to his person, dancing on the curve of his lower lip. 

There was still snow on the barrel when Raylan reached out and took it--Tim’s movement had been _that_ neat and controlled. This was one of Raylan’s tricks, more or less--to do, say, and take what he wanted, and to always have confidence that he wouldn’t get shot doing so. 

It would work until it didn’t. For now, it worked. 

Raylan secured the piece in the waist of his jeans. 

It was like severing a toxic relationship, and suddenly Tim’s attention turned elsewhere. Tim took fistfuls of snow into his hands, drawing it in until the ground showed bits of grass and dirt. Tim brought his fists to the back of his neck and opened them, holding the snow against his flesh. He repeated himself several more times until the space around him was nothing but frozen dirt. Tim sat poised to wait for the sky to open up and offer him more. 

“Tim,” Raylan stood up. “Stop this. Come inside.”

The cold set in. Tim felt it for the first time, seering his skin and cutching his bones. It was like a second presence there, looming over him side-by-side with Raylan. Another angry onlooker.

Tim dropped his hands into the snow again, but didn’t make a fist. He couldn’t. His long digits were red with cold, and Tim looked from them to the woods, confused. He stood and absently brushed the icy snow from his legs. Raylan started back towards the house and Tim followed at a distance, cold hands warming under his armpits.

Raylan only permitted himself to watch the last leg of Tim’s approach, because it seemed like an affront, almost, to view the man in such a state. 

But that was the thing of it all--in his underwear and shirt, bare frozen feet and muddied hands, Tim didn’t look much like the assured, capable man Raylan knew. Tim looked like a sad kid, hurt, helpless, knobby-kneed, and afraid. His eyelids were heavy, swollen-looking and drooped. Behind them Tim's eyes were especially bright, lit internally by some tremendous terror. Raylan only saw it for a second, and chose not to linger. 

Tim looked around his home like he wasn’t certain he’d followed Raylan to the right place. He blinked slowly, then wet his lips and mumbled incoherently, “D’you ever think that you’ve forgotten something? Five in the afternoon, leaving work, and you’re just floored, thinking, _did I wake up today?_ ” 

"Sure, Tim," Raylan said. "All the time." 

He didn't mean it, so when Tim looked at him like he had spoken some kind of gospel, Raylan felt like shit. 

“Get changed,” Raylan ordered. Tim only wet his lips again. They were as pink as his cheeks and nose.

Raylan took Tim by the arm and led the way into Tim’s bedroom. He searched the drawers of the cabinet situated in a corner of the room and found underpants, sweats, and a shirt. He threw the underpants into Tim’s lap. “Change,” he said again, and this time Tim made sense of the command, and was starting on his shirt when Raylan next took his arm. He was moving too slow, and it frustrated Raylan all the more.

“Here,” Raylan grunted, getting a grip on Tim’s soaked-through undershirt and yanking it over his head. Along with a shiny pair of dogtags, Raylan caught a rare glimpse of the scar on his side, the one that merited Tim’s departure from the military. Raylan supposed there was good reason for Tim to keep it covered: it looked like a field patch-up. The flesh was discolored--some white with splotches of red so bright it looked as though the wound was still bleeding. The skin was stretched and twisted, almost knotted and made rope-like around what appeared to be the c-shaped entrance-turned-exit site. It was bigger than Raylan had imagined--its entirety, including lightning-white marks careering up his side, was nearly a foot in length. Worse in some places than others, though, it was still quite the sight. 

It didn't, Raylan noticed, reach Tim's tattoo. 

“What,” Tim started, although more than likely, that was his complete thought.

“I don’t even fucking know,” Raylan said.

“Wait,” Tim tried again, but the rest of his plea died on his lips. 

“If you can string together more than five words, Tim, we can talk. If not, you need to be quiet and get dressed.” Noticing that Tim was visibly shaking now, Raylan threw him another shirt. His temper suddenly flared, because _what the fuck._ The nightmares, the suspicious glares towards abandoned vehicles and vast, empty spaces were understandable by some measure; it was the casually mentioned PTSD, the means by which Tim dealt with his old reality slipping into his new one. Raylan couldn't imagine what went on inside Tim's head when he seemed to drop out of the present, delve inwards and mull over his options at an intersection or grocery isle. Those moments were fleeting, easy to miss if Raylan was preoccupied. Tim never made mention of them, certainly. 

Nowhere in that ungodly package of anxiety was there room for _this_ regression into ineptitude. Out of everything, it seemed the most dangerous. A sniper skillset in the hands of a focused individual was one thing; those skills bouncing around an addled mind made Tim little more than a walking, talking minefield. _If that._

His tone growing crueler by the minute, Raylan pressed, “Full sentences here, Tim. I know it’s a lot to ask. Can you do that?”

“No,” Tim said dully. “I can’t do that.” 

“Four words and a contraction,” Raylan observed, certain his answer was a sign of the smartass Tim was at heart. “I’ll take it.” 

“‘M sorry,” Tim said, so quiet and sincere Raylan thought maybe it wasn’t even meant for him. 

He stepped outside Tim’s bedroom and recovered the gun from the back of his jeans. The barrel was ice cold but the handle was warm where Tim had gripped it. Raylan secured the piece in his own dresser drawers, certain that Tim shouldn’t have it back just yet. Joe, Raylan saw, had relocated to his room.

Returning to Tim’s bedroom in search of answers, Raylan found only Tim, in clean underwear and sweats, although still shirtless, now asleep on his bed. It was hardly a respite; his sleep was fueled only by exhaustion. Raylan threw a blanket over him, making sure to cover Tim’s feet, which were still wet with icy mud. Raylan thought about maybe wiping them down. He didn't. 

His mouth open against his pillow, Tim breathed softly and slept as though he hadn’t just threatened Raylan’s life and dug a hole for himself in the snow. 

Raylan looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes seemed like a gross mistake; the walk back to the house felt like hours in itself. 

Raylan sat in the green chair positioned at the window. He turned his head and watched Tim sleep on his side. Each breath seemed normal, none too labored. When he thought he heard Tim’s teeth chattering from the cold, Raylan leaned over the chair and tossed half of the covers of Tim’s bed over him, enveloping him in a roll of down comforter and sheets. In the piled mass, Tim seemed to shrink. 

Figuring it was the cause of the night’s hysteria, Raylan stared out of Tim’s little bedroom window and saw the disturbed ground on which Tim had sat. He traced the line of Tim’s footprints leading to the exact spot--not haphazard, like Raylan thought given how little sense Tim had been making. They were direct, each bare step made with complete conviction. 

_Did you see it?_

Raylan watched the space for longer than he’d like to admit. It was empty, like it had always been, despite Tim's adamant beliefs. When he finally left Tim’s bedroom, Raylan sat on the couch and watched Tim’s door. Maybe there was nothing outside, but there was something very unlike Tim occupying the man's bed.

Every rustle of bedsheets or sleep-weary cough set Raylan on edge. 

Some dark corner of his mind said _get used to it, this is what fatherhood is._

Raylan scattered those thoughts, taking refuge instead in the fact that he had a beautiful, healthy little girl who laughed at her own toes, not whatever the fuck Tim was. 

At the very least, those thoughts kept him up.

Raylan fixed himself a few fingers of bourbon; it wasn't like Tim didn't have enough to spare. 

\- 

In the morning, Raylan made coffee. It was past 6:30am and he knew Tim was awake, so he pounded on the man’s door and waited at the little table in Tim’s kitchen, one leg stuck out like he meant to trip Tim if the younger Marshal decided to make a run for it. When Tim shuffled out of his bedroom in the sweats and shirt Raylan had thrown at him some hours earlier, as well as two pairs of socks _and_ his running sneakers, Raylan felt vindicated.

“Going out, are we? Ain’t you a little overdressed?”

“My feet are cold,” Tim told him, stepping over Raylan’s long leg to reach the kitchen and, more importantly, the coffee. He didn’t make eye contact with Raylan all the while, having clearly retained some memory of the previous night. He did, however, seek his punishment like a man. 

When he sat across from Raylan with a cup of coffee, Raylan saw that his hands were still stained with dirt. 

Raylan began with a softball question: “Were you sleepwalking?” 

Tim shrugged and shook his head, unsure but doubtful. 

“Did you take something? Painkiller, allergy medicine, something?”

Tim shook his head again. He wrapped his hands around the entirety of his coffee mug, warming them, but hadn’t yet taken a sip. His stare cut across the table, not quite level with Raylan’s--like he knew he owed Raylan this game of 20 Questions, but was drawing a blank on the answers. 

Raylan scratched his chin; it was prickly and heavy with growth. “Alright, well. Way to fuck up the easy out I was giving you. Now you’ve gotta listen when I say I think you oughta see somebody.”

“Who?”

“I don’t _know_ who--a doctor.” 

Like a pavlovian response, Tim insisted _“I’m fine”_ at the first breath of seeking out a medical professional. 

Raylan had a response for Tim, too. 

“For fuck’s sake, Tim, I had to tell you to put on clean underpants.”

Tim’s neck and cheeks flushed red and he shifted in his seat as though he had plans to bolt. Instead, he took a long-awaited sip of coffee and tried to smile. “I’d do the same for you,” Tim joked, but Raylan wasn’t having it. He slammed his palm onto the table top.

“Goddamn it. You pointed your gun at me. Not center-mass, neither. Right between my fucking eyes, Tim.” Raylan watched Tim as he spoke, literally holding his captive audience captive by any means, now. “Anyone else and that’s just my regular Friday night.” 

It was almost a compliment, a very neat attempt of Raylan’s to register his appreciation of Tim’s skillset. What came next, however, was certainly a threat. “You’re gonna get help or I’m gonna leave.” 

Sarcasm lacing his words, Tim pleaded dully, “Oh no, please, don’t.”

“ _And_ I’m gonna tell Art and Rachel _why_ I’m leaving.” Raylan took in a long-suffering breath; he’d laid down the law. It was up to Tim now to accept it or issue a challenge. “You can do this alone or I can tag along. However it gets done.” 

Tim met his eyes and Raylan saw in them a sense of betrayal that shifted so quickly to anger that Raylan felt compelled to hold up his hands, gesturing calm. 

“What’s it going to be?”

It was too late for excuses, but that didn’t stop Tim for desperately wanting one. “It was just a nightmare,” he said quietly, dully, like he was excusing poorly made coffee. _It’s just decaf._

“Don’t,” Raylan told him, jamming a finger at Tim. “Do not lie to me.”

Tim spotted the dirt under his nails--like his cold feet and pile of wet underclothes on his floor, just remnants of his awful night. “My buddy… before he bit it, O’Brien had seen something outside. Said he had. There was nothing--me ‘n Carrie looked.”

“What was it,” Raylan asked coolly, “that you saw last night?”

Tim’s mouth moved behind his pursed lips, like he was running through a number of explanations but found none to be adequate. “I don’t know. I didn’t see--I thought I saw O’Brien.” Tim didn’t sound embarrassed--rather, he came off as angry, frustrated with his own behavior, helpless though he was to temper it.

“How often does this happen?” Raylan asked, figuring if they were anything alike, he’d be able to appeal to Tim’s… nature. “You gotta think, soon enough, it’ll be when you’re in bed with somebody. You start running around backyards in your underpants, seeing things, you’re going to get a reputation.” Raylan sipped at his coffee. “A basket case among closet cases.” 

Tim cocked his head, considering. “Did anyone ever tell you you’ve got good interpersonal skills?”

“Yeah, Linda in HR--”

Tim cut him off, “Linda is a fucking liar."

Raylan had the gall to look mildly offended, and it sent Tim hurtling, _careening_ over the edge. He laughed, baring his teeth. “It blows my mind that you think we’re alike enough that your selling point here is that. _An empty bed._ ” The wide smile hugged words it had no place enveloping, adopting sentiments best spoken through thin-lipped perseverance. “I saw my friend blow his brains out in that bedroom. I was too slow putting a bullet in his shoulder that I ended up cleaning his blood and hair and brain matter off the fucking wall. I can’t have a nightmare about that?”

The smile fell away. It had only existed in response to Raylan's seeming detachment from Tim's reality, but in the look Raylan was giving him now, Tim felt all too exposed. 

Raylan didn’t know what to say to that, so he returned to his original problem with Tim, a matter which he believed they could both agree upon: “You can’t point a gun at me, Tim. I don’t let anyone else do it.” Raylan chanced a crooked smile. “It wouldn’t be fair to my friends in Harlan.” 

“Or Miami,” Tim added quietly, but not completely without humor. “Or Detroit.” 

They were both sat at Tim’s little kitchen table, in his little house, in his quiet neighborhood, in a cold and undisturbed corner of Lexington, but they couldn’t have been further away from one another. This frustrated Raylan, who had spent the better part of the night thinking through his approach, ultimately throwing out his tired old notion that he couldn’t reason with Tim because Tim had no concept of reason. There was duty, and there was time. Unless he was told to point and shoot, Tim’s approach was to wait out his challenges--or challengers, as the case may be. 

But all that was before--Raylan couldn’t pinpoint exactly when, but before the park, before Joe, before a dead cat was found wrapped around the toilet, before the bar, before confessions issued under cover of city-wide darkness, before pointing to the empty bedroom and extending a gruff invitation and a tacit welcome, before a litany of undeserved favors, before shooting Doyle Bennett, before standing toe-to-toe with Arlo. 

Raylan knew better now, and he couldn’t chalk it up to proximity alone. There was something born out of shared time and space that huddled in Raylan’s brain like a tiny informant, sure, but there was also watching and talking and listening, all of which he and Tim performed far more often than ether man would care to recognize. 

Still, Raylan admittedly didn’t understand Tim’s loss or the circumstances surrounding it. He did, however, understand the importance of self-preservation. He understood how the two--suicide and the barely-living one does right until that point--were inextricably linked. 

“What happened to your friend, Tim. What he did.” If Raylan was searching for something profound to say, he didn’t find it. “You probably have a lot more hair than him.”

Tim threw Raylan the dryest look as if to say, _don’t fucking talk about him, you didn’t know him, you slept on his mattress for half a night, you don’t get to say shit about him._ But then Tim’s eyebrows quirked and his face smoothed and he finally understood Raylan’s position and he thought, _Well, yeah. I do._

“What’s going on with you, man?” Raylan’s question made Tim smile, amused for some reason he would not share. He imagined Raylan as the world’s most expensive, least productive psychiatrist. 

“I’ve got a lot going on,” Tim said, easy enough that it sounded like a joke. “I just don’t wear a giant white hat to signal that fact.”

“But it’d be so much easier,” Raylan said dryly, and sipped his coffee. 

Tim stared at his kitchen table, and in his limited range of sight saw Raylan’s hands, one resting easily on its side, the other twisted like a spider around a coffee cup. Tim decided in that moment that he felt like shit, he felt like Mark and maybe O’Brien, and worst of all he felt useless. 

Slowly, Tim pushed away from the table and stood up. Raylan watched him collect a cigarette and a lighter from the kitchen drawer--their winter home, Raylan supposed, in lieu of the outdoor cactus planter--and venture out onto the deck. It wasn’t snowing any more, but the wind swept up the snow and sent it flying. For someone who supposedly hated the cold, Raylan thought, Tim was quick to use it for a hasty escape.

“You smoking like a chimney and all,” Raylan said, following him, boots settling into the fresh fallen snow, “Didn’t ever give away your position?” 

“I quit before joining up,” Tim said, balancing the cigarette on his bottom lip and lighting it. Consonants were garbled as he spoke out of one side of his mouth, only. “Cold turkey. Three years of hard work and dedication down the drain.”

Raylan smirked and shook his head. Of course Tim could compartmentalize an addiction, pocket it away and promise himself, _later._

Tim took a long drag. “Real proud of that.”

Both men could just make out the scrambled mess of earth and snow Tim had left in the far corner of the yard. Tim scrubbed a hand over his brow and into his hair. It was mussed from sleep and sweat. “I’ma go to the VA,” he decided. “Alone. You oughta sleep.” 

Raylan nodded, but didn’t voice either his approval or triumph. This was Tim’s decision, made at Raylan’s insistence, sure, but nonetheless for Tim’s own benefit. 

Tim finished his cigarette, showered, dressed, pocketed his wallet, and very pointedly did not ask Raylan about his weapon. There was an unspoken agreement that Tim would get it back after he’d done something to earn the privilege. 

Returned to the kitchen table, Raylan voiced one last push to get Tim out the door--a gentle word, certainly, but underhanded all the same. “Understand it from my point of view, huh? We’re at work and you’re there, you’re focused. But you got all this headcase shit going on at home.”

“Raylan,” Tim said slowly, “That’s everybody. ‘Cept you. You ever think it’s you who’s got it backwards?”

Raylan gave a wry smile. “If everybody was jumping off a cliff, Tim, would you?”

In light of recent events, Tim tempered the first several jokes that came to mind--all were too dark, too agreeable. Tim fixed himself a cup of coffee to go, because that seemed normal, and that’s what he was going for. “No, but I also wouldn’t listen to the one fella who said _wait here, we can walk across the corpses._ ”

Raylan blinked at him tiredly. “Go see to your mental health.”

“I should probably speed," Tim mused. "I’ll speed," he decided.

“Go nuts,” Raylan waved him off. 

\- 

Pulling an all-nighter didn't suit Raylan. Anything he tried to accomplish that day, he fell asleep doing so. He awoke now late in the evening, having missed _Cast Away_ on television, easily snoozing through a tortured man’s heartbroken screams after his lost volley ball, but quickly stirred to wakefulness at the opening of a door. 

Tim was there, returning late from the VA. 

Raylan sat up on the couch, his head still in a fog. “Mm. How’d it go?”

Tim walked stiffly through the kitchen and into the living room, like he was uncomfortable. “I got shot in the arm.”

Thinking he must have heard wrong, Raylan asked, “They gave you a shot of something?”

“No, I got shot.” With his right arm only, Tim shrugged out of his coat and revealed his left to be resting across his middle, cradled in a navy canvas sling. The green shirt he’d been wearing that morning was gone, but his white undershirt was dark with blood splotches. A stray bullet had found him, powered through the flesh of his inner upper arm--really, it had passed under his armpit; a miraculous shot in every way except that it had hit him. 

With his right hand, Tim found the remote and turned on the local news. “Fella opened fire in the VA. Killed two vets and wounded some others.” A commercial passed and then, sure enough, helicopter and ground views of the Lexington VA from earlier that morning busied the television screen. Police milled around, mostly waving away news crews. 

“Jesus, Tim.” Raylan took in the images and tried to make sense of their scattered story.

It was like anything else Raylan had seen; the country was ripe with these happenings, and today’s was no different. A young, white male battling the demons in his head and losing; finding firearms easier than he could a shrink; targeting the institution he blamed for his problems as well as he could, seeing as the _military industrial complex_ , as a target, was a little vague. But hell, there was the VA not twenty minutes from his mother’s home. 

There was heavy speculation, spitfire opinion, and on-the-fly psychoanalysis and then--there was Tim. 

A grainy image of the younger Marshal exiting the building flashed on the screen and although the anchor woman was speaking, Raylan muted the sound and turned to Tim for an explanation. 

“I put him down,” Tim said into the quiet. He took a seat in the recliner and quirked a partial smile when Joe immediately settled at his feet.

A few more images played, showing the sequence of Tim leaving the building with his arms raised as well as he could. Clinched in his right hand was his wallet, open and baring his Marshal’s badge. Raylan punched the volume. 

_“...the shooter then sustained a bullet wound to the head--ah, returned fire from one of the victims who is believed, at this time, to be law enforcement. Really something, Diane.”_

_“Certainly is, Bob.”_

Raylan muted the television as the discussion devolved into weekend weather forecasts and time lapse pictures of snow accumulating on patio furniture. “Well you’ve certainly had a busy day.” He glanced at Tim, who had somehow got his foot high in his lap and was working with both hands to undo the knots on his shoes. “Hey--”

Tim waved off Raylan’s concern; there was no damage he could do to his arm worse than a bullet, now. “Not to worry. It’s my paperwork arm.” 

“Art’ll get a kick out of that.” 

“Aw, he’s heard it.”

Some hours earlier after the news first broke among law enforcement of a potential situation--then the spectacular _end_ to that situation--Tim was sat in a hospital, waiting to hear if surgery was in the cards for him, when Art called. Tim answered, “Hello?” and heard back, _“What the fuck do you mean, hello?!”_

Art had railed on, “I had to hear from LPD that one of my deputies shot someone. I about had a heart attack hearing it wasn’t _Raylan._ ”

“So you’re looking at some time off, then,” Raylan gathered, rightly assuming that Art had effectively grounded him. 

Tim continued to tug at his shoe laces. “Yup. Planning to stay around here. If that’s okay. Doctor’s appointments.” He didn’t specify medical or psychiatric. 

Raylan’s brow furrowed in playful confusion; he was back to not understanding half of why Tim said the things he did. “Yeah, Tim. It’s your place.” Mostly, whenever Tim deferred to Raylan it was in a deceitful manner and accompanying mocking tone. Now, he seemed genuinely inquisitive and--another first--sensitive to what Raylan might permit. Begrudgingly, Raylan supposed he’d gone too far in lobbing threats that morning. Dialing back the lawman angle, Raylan quieried, “You need anything?” 

Tim stared at him, but his blue eyes seemed clouded and unfocused--maybe as a result of the day’s events or the shot of morphine and painkiller cocktail he’d accepted at the hospital. Raylan decided it was best that he didn’t know how Tim made it home in such a state. 

Tim ran his free hand over his face, suddenly thinking the same thing. 

“No,” he waved off Raylan’s open offer with a shaky, barely-there twitch of the big hand protruding from his sling--just to prove his point. “I’m good.”

Tim wrestled himself free of his shoes and they watched the news together for a time. The story cycled back and Tim dropped his gaze to his phone, not especially eager to watch the ordeal unfold a second time. 

“You’ve had a bloody couple of months,” Raylan observed. He thought about changing the channel, but figured more up-to-date information was forthcoming. 

Tim absently listened and fiddled with his cell. A few missed calls from Rachel and Art, nothing else. He glanced at Raylan. “Yeah. Wonder what’s changed.”

It hardly seemed important now, but Raylan couldn’t help himself. “Did you even speak with anyone? _Hello, I’m Tim, I feel like hurting myself and others._ ”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “You know, I was just mid-sentence in that exact sentiment.”

“Funny how things work out,” Raylan smiled wryly. 

“Hilarious,” Tim agreed.

The news anchor announced that among the eight sustaining bullet wounds, a third victim fatally succumbed to her injuries. A woman, just recently back from her second deployment. The picture used showed a young soldier wearing only fatigues, an automatic weapon, a severe ponytail, and a grin. She looked younger than Tim. 

Tim grimaced upon hearing the neat, packaged sentiments that would later litter her more formal obituary. “Fuck,” he murmured. “We’re killing each other.” 

He felt a pressure mount at his hairline and work its way through his skull. Placating his headache with slow movements and no further noises, Tim sat up to vacate the recliner in favor of his bedroom. He closed his door before Joe could sneak in after him. After an entire day of mobs of police, doctors, nurses, and camera crews, Tim wanted only a moment to himself, hearing his own thoughts as they existed in his head and not issued in flat assurances and diplomatic jargon, as he’d had to share them again and again.

Back against the door, Tim tried not to think, but that was hardly a solution to his problem. He threw a hand across his mouth, suddenly feeling as though he might scream. When none came, the hand moved to his throat and then his chest, under his shirt which was still damp and sticky with blood. 

He should have left his room, taken a long shower, put something solid in his stomach and gone to bed. But Tim dreaded catching a glimpse of the television again, or facing any more questions from Raylan. If what had happened hadn’t put the place on lockdown, Tim would have returned to the VA immediately. He didn’t want to talk, necessarily, but there was some cruel comfort to be had in being sat in a room with a half-dozen others who knew exactly what he was going through, felt the same lightning hot surges of panic and the slow drip of depression. 

Tim felt tears sting his eyes. He didn’t want to talk about that, either. 

He heard the television’s volume decrease considerably, and then Raylan’s voice as he issued a phone call to Art. 

“He’s here. Gone to bed, so maybe don’t call and disturb him.” Raylan listened to his boss for a moment, then continued unexpectedly, “Yeah, I--I picked him up. He called, I came and got him.” 

Tim was thankful that Raylan played along with the little lie he had told Art about not needing a ride from the hospital, but the rest of their conversation fell out of Tim’s focus. Raylan spun simple lies and that’s about all Tim needed to know to believe he was in the clear. 

When Raylan ended the call and sighed frustratedly, Tim longed for a drink. A few drinks, enough to erase this day and the countless others like it. Tim wanted to purge his failures, spit them up like a rotten meal, scrape away at his insides and just run on fumes for a while. Anything to feel clean again.

He felt like he’d fucked up and wanted to apologise, but didn’t know where to start. The strong, beautiful woman who’d been cut down when Tim scrambled to find a weapon? The shooter himself, who was just a dumb kid, a sick kid? Or maybe his family, who lost a son and would have to see the man who killed him paraded around like a hero? Raylan, even-- _sorry, I should have mentioned psychosis along with smoker and cat owner._

It was immeasurably selfish, but a part of Tim felt considerable pity for himself, and regret that the kid wasn’t a better shot. 

Moving from the door to the bed, Tim found he was too wired to sleep. He sat on the end facing the window and looked for his footprints outside. 

He must have drifted off nonetheless, because the next thing he knew night was disappearing, leaving only shrinking circles of blue shadows under the trees in his yard. Sunlight eventually came and swept over the clean white snow, the evidence of Tim’s previous night obliterated. 

What little sleeping did Tim, he did so fully dressed. His shirt crunched and pinched at the skin on his chest as he sat up. He winced. Although the blood had dried to a dirt brown, the stench was still sickening. A long, hot shower was imperative. 

Tim unfastened his belt and wriggled out of his jeans. He wasn’t so worried about being one-handed for a time, figuring things that needed doing would just take a little longer than he’d like. That belief was being tested now as some tugging at his shirt made it clear it wasn’t coming off. Not only had the blood dried uncomfortably against his skin, but his chest hair was now a key player in this dangerous game. Tim shuffled into the bathroom, figuring the easiest solution would be to shower in and soak his shirt, then attempt to remove it. 

Tim twisted a garbage bag around his arm as best he could to protect the dressing and sling, shed his boxers, and readied the water. 

Tim leaned into the corner of the shower, forehead pressed against the clean white tile, and wished the stench out of his nostrils. The water and steam seemed to activate the coppery smell and Tim felt momentarily woozy, like he was stood at the epicenter of a gas bomb. He wouldn’t have peace, he knew, until the sodden, heavy shirt came off. It swallowed up the warm water, leaving Tim to tug and pull with no avail. He’d spent a little over five minutes soaking and attempted to extract himself from his shirt when Raylan knocked twice at the door. “You doin’ alright in there?”

Tim got that _screaming_ feeling again, but kept it in check. “Yep.”

“You gonna be a while?”

“Yep.”

Raylan was quiet for a time, and then, “I got to take a piss.”

“Okay.” Tim secured the shower curtain and prepared to wait Raylan out. 

Raylan entered and did his business. Tim thought he had escaped further incessant torture, but his streak of shitty luck seemed to be on cruise control. Raylan caught a glimpse of Tim’s figure behind the curtain, and could easily tell Tim was still partly dressed. 

“You need a little help, there?” Raylan asked, adding lightly, “Worst I’m gonna see is that it’s bigger than mine.” 

“Prepare for the worst,” Tim said, though Raylan understood the invitation still had not been formally accepted. After a beat, Tim turned off the faucet and grabbed a towel from the rack. He managed to wrap it loosely around his waist before drawing back the plastic curtain. When he did, Raylan made sure his face was a blank slate, neither amused nor concerned, just… patient. 

“It’s stuck,” Tim mumbled. “My shirt. To my skin. The blood…”

“Easy fix,” Raylan assured. Instead of soap, he took the shampoo bottle and produced a dollop in Tim’s hand. “Rub that in under your shirt.” In response to Tim’s questioning look, Raylan defended his credentials: “You think I’ve never woken up after a bar fight with a bloody pillow glued to my face?”

“Forgot you used to live above one,” Tim said. “Guess that makes more sense.” Doing as he was told, Tim felt the tight fibers of his shirt loosen, could smell the blood as the dried flakes swallowed up more water and suds. Finally, the shirt came loose. “Alright.”

Raylan stepped a little closer and unsnapped the body strap on Tim’s sling. “Arm up, best as you can.” 

Tim complied and Raylan lifted the side of Tim’s shirt up--getting a second look at Tim’s scar in the process--and eased the shirt over Tim’s head. The rest, he pulled neatly over Tim’s garbage bag-wrapped arm. 

“And we’re clear,” Raylan said. His triumphant expression was muted, then, when he noticed how pink the blood had stained Tim’s chest, and now colored his hand. He helped Tim adjust the sling back into place, careful of the dull, gray swath of skin on Tim’s arm indicative of some internal bleeding. Knowing the condition well over his years, Raylan decided it didn’t look too bad, and didn’t mention it right away. 

“Shit,” Tim said, eyes fluttering as the relief he felt had him practically _lightheaded._ He relished in the absence of the heavy shirt and unrelenting tug on his skin and hair. Into his splotchy, discolored chest he rubbed soothing circles over the aggravated skin with his sudsy hand. He’d lost some dusty hairs, sure, but the war was won. Tim glanced at Raylan. “Thanks.”

Raylan nodded and closed the curtain for him, then wrung out the shirt in the sink, coloring it pink, too. Tim closed the curtain, removed the towel, turned the water on again and just stood in the spray. 

“You want breakfast?” Raylan asked as he took his leave. Like he was working a deal, he added, “You get shot, you get breakfast.” 

Tim muttered something between _whatever_ and _fuck off already_ , so Raylan took a quick stock of what Tim didn’t have in his fridge or pantry, and set off for the nearby grocery. Among the kids eagerly enjoying their second day of snow, Raylan saw in the neighborhood a man wearing a coat too heavy for the weather and carrying a rucksack. He paid him little mind, thinking instead that for the foreseeable future, Tim would be cooped up and agitated, meaning _Raylan_ would share in that sorry fate.

Even for the short drive, it was a wonder he didn’t crash, staring like he was at the pink palms of his hands born of handling the stained and sodden shirt.

\- 

Raylan took his time fetching groceries. More than breakfast, he knew Tim wanted some time alone. He thought about how Tim had spent the day alone at the hospital, too, and wondered if his time freeloading might be nearing an end. Raylan could threaten to leave with all of Tim’s secrets as much as he wanted; above it all, Tim still held the power of simply asking him to go. 

Raylan glanced at the bag of groceries in the passenger seat. He’d bought oranges. Tim liked those. 

Turning into the neighborhood off the main street, Raylan again spotted the over-dressed man, wandering the sidewalks and eyeing every home. He slowed the car and called out to the man, “You lost?”

The man had the good sense to look embarrassed. “Sorry,” he said, as though begging forgiveness for having been in Raylan’s line of sight. “I’ve been here once before--couple of years ago. I got turned around in the taxi.” 

Raylan nodded; he was still committed to buying some time away from Tim. “You got an address? A name?”

“Tim Gutterson,” the man said--not questioning-like, but sure. 

So there went Raylan’s plans.

“I know Tim,” Raylan returned carefully. “Does he know you?” 

The man’s face brightened with a wide, toothy grin. “Yeah, I--I’m a buddy of his.”

Scratching a line across his brow, Raylan asked thoughtfully, “That wouldn’t happen to be a Canadian accent, now would it?”

“You do know Tim,” the man observed, smiling. 

“Get in. You’re close.” 

As Raylan moved the groceries to the back seat, the man rounded the car and got in. “You’re Raylan Givens, then? Good to meet you.” To go with his wide smile the man had big, half-lidded brown eyes, light brown skin, and close-cropped, almost reddish hair. His face was all features, each striking in their own way, but balanced as a whole: big ears, sharp cheekbones, a flat nose. “A.B. Myers,” he said, then amended, “Ben.”

Ben sat with his bag on his lap, like he was determined not to intrude on Raylan’s generous offer any more than necessary. He’d even shook the snow from his boots so as not to track any into Raylan’s car. 

“Tim didn’t mention you were coming,” Raylan said.

Ben nodded. “I saw the news, was filing for time off and on a plane before I even thought to ask about coming down,” he admitted. “I’m excitable.” 

His focus drifted between Raylan and the neighborhood; he wanted to know if he’d ever even come close to finding Tim’s place on his own. “It’s not like him to get caught up in that kind of shit. You know.”

Raylan gave a soft huff of laughter. “Been a while since you two crossed paths, then?” 

Under his too-heavy coat, Ben wore a plain denim shirt unbuttoned at the neck, dark jeans with the turnups whose return to popular culture Raylan couldn’t fathom (but whatever, not every man could fit into the same Levi 501s he wore in college), and well-worn black work boots with some yellow and white piping. The phrase, _he looks like a guy with options_ came into Raylan’s head and stayed there. He seemed put-together and whole in a way Raylan didn’t know a lot of people to be. 

Above all, Ben looked… normal, Raylan decided. Friendly and open where Tim was decidedly neither of those things. _Speaking of,_ Raylan thought to himself, addressing Ben directly, “Now, Tim gets a kick outta lying to me. You ain’t really a reindeer farmer, are you?”

“My family’s business,” Ben allowed, grinning. “I pilot utility helos in the RCAF.” At Raylan’s blank stare, Ben elaborated: “Search and rescue, mainly.”

“Military,” Raylan nodded. “Explains how you two met, I suppose.”

“Suppose so,” Ben hedged. “We never ran any missions together, nothing like that. But it put us both in Turkey for R&R--almost a decade ago.” 

Ben smiled, then, like he was deeply, unstoppably eager for Tim’s company. Considering the fella hopped a plane out of Toronto, Raylan thought he deserved some course correction. 

“He ain’t in the best way about now,” Raylan said, and although Ben did not look in the least confused about his meaning, the Marshal saw fit to amend himself, adding, “Arm’s fine--will be fine. It’s just the rest of him that’s skrewy.” 

Ben raised his eyebrows and gave a soft chuckle. “So you do know Tim,” he repeated. 

“Should have asked for references before I moved in with him,” Raylan grumbled, pulling into their driveway.

“Five stars,” Ben goaded playfully. “Very tidy.” 

Raylan smirked and played along. “Applicants must love cats, alcoholism, and impressive mental breakdowns.”

Ben threw Raylan a look that wasn’t curious so much as affronted; not, _why would you say that_ but _why would you say that about Tim, out loud, behind his back?_ Raylan got the feeling that, in this instance, he’d brutalized Tim worse than if he’d put that bloody hole in the man’s arm, himself. It wasn’t a good feeling.

Raylan quickly amended, “The cat died. Don’t bring it up.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's known Ben one third of his life. It's one of the longest, most important relationships he's maintained. What damage can he do in one week?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Thanks all for reading and commenting and all that great stuff that you all do. :) I'm hoping to finish this thing in another chapter or two. IT'S JUST SADNESS.

The Elves had just awoken, protected by the strength and fortitude of the Valar against Melkor, who would have had them slain so as to keep Arda for his own, when a car pulled up in Tim’s driveway. He found a scrap of paper in his bedside drawer and stuck it in the book to keep his place, then rested the tome on his belly, and his hands on top of that. If there was ever a time Tim thought he could slog through _The Silmarillion,_ a week of mandatory bedrest was it. Tim stared at his ceiling and listened as his peace and quiet was disrupted in every corner of the house: Joe awoke from his nap on the couch. His dull nails skittered across Tim’s floors as he ran rampant through the living room and den, excited for the return of anyone who might have enough patience for him. Raylan, forever incapable of a light touch, jammed his key into the door and put his shoulder into it. He was followed by another, Tim heard, noting only footsteps and little else. 

“Tim,” Raylan called. “You got a visitor.”

Tim’s bedroom door was closed, but if Raylan was worth half of what the state paid him to ride a desk most days, he could undoubtedly see the faint light shining under the door. 

“Art or Rachel?” Tim called back.

“Neither,” Raylan returned.

Tim rolled from his back onto his good side. He wasn’t in much of a rush to greet someone he didn’t know. He sat up on the edge of his bed and waited for his head to stop swimming. “Do I have to put on pants?”

“Probably not a top priority.” 

_So not a cop, then._

Tim pulled on a pair of jeans, anyway, to go with a t-shirt that had taken him all of five minutes to wrestle into earlier that morning. For as necessary as his shower had been, warmed him and made him feel clean after such a dirty affair at the VA, the hard stream of water had aggravated the wound, bruised his flesh, and hurt like hell. Not even completely dry, Tim had promptly taken a pain pill. He was just starting to feel its dulling effects.

His hair was still damp, combed back, and Tim supposed he almost looked presentable. He doubted it mattered. Some part of him held out hope that maybe a buddy had seen the news, recognized his face, and decided to pay him a visit. Tim got so excited at the prospect of a few drinks at one in the afternoon that he swore he’d have them himself if the visitor wasn’t what he’d hoped. 

Tim took two steps out of his bedroom and rested his eyes on something he’d never even chanced hoping for--one of those things, like a rescue helo. A welcome sight born only of profound tragedy or peril and, well, maybe it was drugs talking, but Tim didn’t think he was in that bad of shape.

“Oh,” Tim wet his lips and smiled faintly. “Cool.” 

Ben made up the space between them and enveloped Tim in an embrace, careful of Tim’s bound arm. Tim was less mindful of his condition, and practically barrelled himself into Ben’s presence, hooking his free arm under Ben’s and up, claiming the man’s shoulder for his own. 

“You smell good,” Tim said, planting his nose into the flesh at Ben’s throat. 

“I’ve been on a plane and the tarmac for the last six hours,” Ben laughed, surprised with Tim’s display.

“Like pine trees,” Tim murmured. He pulled back and gave another weak smile, all the while keeping his free hand hooked around Ben’s side. “Thanks. For coming down.”

Ben looked apologetic. “I can only stay the week. Booked a flight for Saturday.” 

Tim nodded like he was agreeing to conditions of war. He remembered his co-worker standing over a bag of oranges in the kitchen. “You met Raylan,” Tim guessed, pointing needlessly. “And that’s Joe,” he pointed again. “And that’s everybody.” 

“Tim’s on some pain medication,” Raylan said, like he was explaining a poorly delivered joke. 

Ben smiled all the same, encouraging-like as he inspected Tim’s arm. Raylan kept his head down and tried not to blatantly observe the pair, but it was difficult. He was naturally curious; he’d never seen Tim hug anyone like that--not Hank, not even his cat. 

It turned out, however, that Raylan needn’t try to make himself invisible. In their long-overdue meeting, the two men saw, heard, and cared about nothing beyond each other. 

“Mom saw it on the news. CBC.”

“Hey,” Tim smiled weakly. “Look at that, I’m famous.”

“Called, texted, _and e-mailed me_ about it.”

“Aw,” Tim dismissed dryly, shaking his head. “It ain’t so bad.” He watched as Ben prodded carefully at his arm and shoulder, smoothing a few fingers over the gray spot on Tim’s bicep.

“Oh, I know. She was a lot more worried than I was,” Ben assured him, smirking. Then, taking in the rest of Tim--in particular, his weary frame and the dark circles under his eyes--Ben said, “You look beat.”

“Could be the hole in my arm,” Tim returned, clearly flirting. “Could be anything, really.”

“Aw, poor baby,” Ben play-socked him on the shoulder. “Well, get over it. It’s nice out, let’s go for a walk.” 

“Dude,” Tim protested, and even Raylan felt compelled to register his doubt. He held his tongue, however, because the shower and time alone seemed to have done Tim some good. He looked awake and focused--and all the better, still, for Ben’s surprise arrival. 

“Hey,” Ben said, fishing something out of his rucksack, “I brought you a toque.”

He presented the woolly thing with great aplomb. Tim rolled his eyes and snatched it up. 

“Great, make me look like the asshole.” 

It was handmade, a dark spread of greens, blues, and grays in a delicate pattern carefully drawn from the heavy woolen material.

“Fatima made it for you,” Ben explained while shedding a coat clearly chosen for Toronto, and not his present location. 

“Oh, yeah? How’s she doing?”

“She’ll graduate high school next year. Still thinks you’re cute.”

Tim rolled his eyes again and pressed the hat back into Ben’s hands. “Give me five minutes.” He turned, taking his shameless smile with him into the bedroom. "Talk amongst yourselves,” he called easily over one shoulder. 

Raylan huffed out a laugh and caught Ben’s eye. “Talk about how precious he is?” he optioned, just loud enough for Tim to overhear.

“If you can find the words,” Ben joked in a dreamy tone.

“Ha ha,” Tim said, returning to the living room having donned a coat. He had one shoe in hand and found the other by the deck door. He sat on the couch and went about the slow and awkward work of putting them on one-handed. 

“I got it,” he insisted at the first tired huff of breath from his audience. The pink tip of his tongue pressed out between his lips as he concentrated on the laces of his boot. It became something of a sideshow, with Raylan and Ben both watching Tim’s valiant--if futile--efforts. “Fuck,” he grunted, looking up from his half-laced efforts. “Hey, asshole.” 

Raylan was wise enough to avert his gaze, but Ben kept his eyes on Tim, paired with a ridiculous smile.

“Hey, what,” Ben grinned.

“You wanna watch me limber up or you wanna take that walk before Spring?”

“Honestly? I’m leaning towards the former.” Ben joined Tim and stooped to his aid. The hunch of Tim’s shoulders screamed untold embarrassment, but a quiet smile continued to play on his lips. 

Ben finished the first boot. “Jesus, are these the only shoes you have?”

“Well my penny loafers are _suede,_ Ben.” 

“Forgive my ignorance,” Ben said, looking up into Tim’s face and grinning.

“You know that I try.” 

“You wanna join us, Raylan? Bring Joe along?” It was an innocuous invitation, hardly even directed at Raylan himself, but Ben was polite enough to offer.

“Wouldn’t you know it, I wouldn’t step outside again if you paid me.” Raylan adjusted his hat. “Supposed to get up to 30 tomorrow, at least.”

“A scorcher,” Tim intoned, standing up and examining Ben’s efforts. 

They took Joe with them on a walk that lasted nearly two hours. They returned having circled around the neighborhood, emerging from the wooded area behind the house, taking tall steps and wetting the bottoms of their jeans in snow. The movement caught Raylan’s eye, so he sipped a beer and watched their approach from inside. Yvonne appeared and they stopped to speak with her briefly, with Tim making the necessary introductions. 

Tim’s good arm swung easily at his side while the other was hidden under his unzipped coat. Something about the imagery there--an empty shirt sleeve--didn’t sit well with Raylan, who turned his attention to Ben, who had traded his heavy coat for a lighter alternative of Tim’s. A rabbit skittered out of the woods, disturbed by their heavy-footed presence. It crossed the lawn, taking a similar route as Tim had done two nights ago. Tim didn’t point it out or seem to make mention of it, but then again--Raylan didn’t know why he would.

_Here’s where I went crazy._

Raylan supposed they'd talked the whole time, played catch-up, because they were still talking as they re-entered the house from the deck door. Ben had taken up Joe, who was still very much a puppy, into his jacket and out of the cold. Released, Joe ran to Raylan on the couch, hoping for another warm stead.

After shedding their boots and coats, they talked for a while, neither really saying much of anything as far as Raylan could tell as he floated around the house, not used to noise that wasn’t from the television. They were mostly quiet, Ben’s head ducked towards Tim whether Tim was speaking or listening. Sometimes he leaned back, laughing or to shake his head. Sometimes he’d lean forward and kiss Tim, simple and chaste or hard and impulsive; either way, he couldn’t stop himself. Tim didn’t stop him, either, or let Raylan’s presence in the house stop either of them.

Figuring they weren’t of a mind to make plans any further from the couch or the bedroom, Raylan ordered in. They had pizza and scotch, the latter of which Ben abstained, casually collecting a coke for himself, instead. 

While tearing into his second slice, Raylan got the funny feeling that Tim _wasn’t_ glaring daggers at him, mentally willing him to leave and give the other two men their privacy. Tim seemed to have first accepted Raylan’s presence in the house and second, Ben’s being there was such a welcome surprise that even Tim couldn’t muster the energy to see any negative aspect of the arrangement--even Raylan’s inclusion. 

Tim and Ben were sat on the couch, with Tim angled so that his injured arm wasn't sandwiched against the cushions. That put him in the far corner, closest to Raylan in Winona's recliner, making them both audience to Ben, in a way. Raylan could see every sly smile shared between Tim and his visitor. Tim was in a quiet, constant state of excitement; he looked at Ben like he did the pages of a good book--intently.

Food and drink kept Tim from solely mooning over Ben, however, and he took both in ample supply. He chased his scotch with a couple of beers before even starting on a slice of pizza. (“Liquid diet?” Ben had asked, doubtful. “Doctor’s orders,” Tim insisted, ever the picture of innocence.) 

"Tim tells me you've got a new baby," Ben said--his first attempt at drawing Raylan in after being so focused on Tim and his poorly conditions--both mental and physical. 

Raylan raised his glass. "Six months," he said, then produced a picture on his phone, like it was necessary to bear proof.

"Oh, wow," Ben said, sounding genuinely in awe. Raylan smiled at that; most anyone who asked after his child intended it as a joke-- _she licensed to kill yet, like her daddy?_ It wasn’t so often that someone had the same response Raylan did every time he got around to visiting the kid. Always bigger, always with a wisp more hair. Always a wonder. 

"You want kids?" Raylan asked, needling Tim some because why the hell not? Tim was fresh-faced, drinking scotch, eating pizza, and sat next to a sure-thing. He was cured.

"Well we keep trying," Tim said, pouring himself another glass of scotch. He wrinkled his nose in anticipation of a burning sip. “We're so punk rock.”

"I do," Ben said, long after the joke was had. "Want kids." Tim upended his glass and got the desired chuckles from Ben and Raylan, although something decidedly unfunny lingered, like each man was eyeing the other two, uncertain if his laughter was acceptable. 

Getting used to the idea that he might actually be seeing him for more than an evening or a particularly early morning, Raylan found himself genuinely curious about this young guy, handsome and outgoing where Tim was more reserved, who would hop on a plane at a moment’s notice because the fact that his long-distance, quasi-boyfriend was having a rough go of things made national headlines. Although the alcohol smoothed out the edges, Raylan asked precisely that: _who the hell are you?_

“He’s my alibi,” Tim drawled, “For when they find your body.”

“With the others?” Ben stage-whispered to Tim--a show of his closeness with the young Marshal, that he might make the kind of dark joke Tim would save for himself: outright calling him a killer, a murderer.

Tim smirked and gave a curt nod. “He already knows too much.” 

Morbid commentary aside, Raylan’s question was not to go unanswered.

“I’ll give you the short version,” Ben offered instead, mistaking Raylan’s interest for the kind of questions he usually got--the ones that usually began rudely with _what…?_ He answered succinctly, “Black. White. Gay. Canadian. Muslim.”

Raylan raised his eyebrows. “Are you the Highlander, too?”

Tim smiled and occupied himself with his beer. Ben smiled too, not familiar with the reference but nonetheless confident that Tim would not lead him astray. 

“That’s a mouthful,” Raylan allowed, really considering the set. He wouldn’t have pegged Ben for the former or latter; he could certainly pass as white, but maybe not in Kentucky, where people had an eye for these things. And being Muslim may have explained passing on some excellent scotch, but with the rest of the package, Raylan found he had yet more questions. If Ben was anything like his boyfriend-of-sorts, however, the answers would present themselves in time, divvied out like rewards for good behavior.

So instead, Raylan ribbed playfully, “Tim ain’t even half of that. Tim’s just--” 

“Tired,” Tim supplied with a flat look directed at Raylan. “I’m tired. How about we wrap this up?” He nudged his knee against Ben’s. “Go to bed?”

“Tim’s a romantic,” Ben clarified with a grin. “ _Clearly._ ” 

(Raylan doubted Tim wanted to keep him from stating the obvious, as was clearly the purpose of his joke. It only clicked later that Tim might not have wanted his ditched Catholicism earning a mention.)

Tim stood from the couch with some difficulty. The alcohol in his system, coupled with the medication burning a hole in his belly and little else, cost him his balance. Ben was quick to appear at his side, his hand in Tim’s, but Tim shook him off, proud and teetering on drunk. When Ben made a second attempt, however, Tim accepted it. Held tight and squeezed for his own benefit. Raylan watched their backs as they disappeared into Tim’s bedroom, retiring early. 

Tim's life seemed to be in a constant negotiation: what he shared, what he kept tight to his person, who he engaged with, to what end--how he managed to be at once a pragmatist, but forever a cynic. With Ben came an easiness, a smoothing of all those harsh edges. Even tired and in pain, Tim was happy. 

And in the six hours since Ben’s arrival, the change in Tim’s attitude was undeniable. It took all of Raylan’s willpower not to comment on it, and send the faint smile on Tim’s face into a mulled and angry line. 

Raylan, now intent on finishing the bottle of scotch split between himself and Tim, heard his fellow Marshal sigh and slump against his closed bedroom door. Faintly, Raylan heard him remark, “Afraid I won’t be much for you. Painkillers kind of de-bone a fella.” 

“There’s the polite southern boy I brought home to mother,” Ben joked in return, taking on a hint of the Kentucky accent he’d found himself enveloped in that day. “Sometimes I forget you’re from Texas and not Afghanistan.” 

“Hey, me too.” 

“Let’s just lay down a while. I came here to be with you.” 

“You’re sweet,” Tim said, so soft that Raylan couldn’t hear it. 

\- 

Undressed and on Tim’s bed, they laid side-by-side, only barely touching shoulders. Tim imagined it was like how married couples slept in colonial America, with a bundling board between them. 

He mentioned this and Ben agreed, with one stipulation: “But we’re going to fuck later, right?”

“Like only men can,” Tim assured him. 

Ben fished out something from under him--a book, Tim’s, previously left on the bed. _The Silmarillion._ Ben flipped through it idly, touching well-worn pages and taking in paper-trapped air. The book seemed to breathe in his hands. 

Handling the book made Ben smile because he knew some things. Things, for instance, like the fact that Tim was never a very good student in school but loved to read. When the military emerged as a means to get away from home, Tim read it all: manuals, history, even military and international law, because if there was one thing the history had taught him, it was that peacetime was fleeting. When the whole world opened up and a few sick fucks took New York, Tim had his eye on Afghanistan, knowing he couldn’t get much further from home than that. 

Ben also knew that sometimes Tim felt stupid for enjoying the kinds of books he did, now. Adventure and fantasy, laced with idyllic teen romance and nothing that’d get his dick up. Then he’d breeze through _The Lord of the Rings_ trilogy for the hundredth time and remember that he’d once heard that Tolkien had written parts during the course of World War I, and think, _yeah. I got your number, Tolkien._

“Hey,” Ben said, eyes skimming over the page where Tim left off. He’d felt Tim go still beside him, slow his breathing and sigh. He’d drawn his good arm up to cradle his injured one. 

“Can I tell you something?” 

Tim was staring at the ceiling. Ben thought it looked as though he was speaking directly to God, so he felt more than a little out of place replying, “Of course.”

“I’m sorry.” It came as a whisper, intentionally or not. Tim buried his face under one large hand and took a deep breath. “I’m gonna kill more guys here than I saw die over there.” Before Ben could issue a comforting word, Tim insisted, “And that ain’t _okay._ ”

“No,” Ben agreed, situating himself so that he curled neatly against Tim. “That’s not okay.”

Tim continued to stare blankly at the empty ceiling. Even in the dark, Ben could see the expressionless look on Tim’s face as he spoke in flat, uncertain tones. “I think I’m scared.”

“You think?”

“I’m not entirely sure.”

\- 

Monday, Raylan left coffee in the pot before departing for the office. Tim and Ben took full advantage of Tim’s ordered time off by occupying their time fucking in the early afternoon before Tim took his prescribed fistful of antibiotics and pain management medications. Their morning was slow and lazy, but time seemed to creep up on them over the course of a number of errands, including Tim’s doctor’s appointment--for his arm. Tim never saw a specialist about his nightmares or wild episode, let alone had an opportunity to raise the issue with a representative at the VA. 

In the waiting room, two reporters addressed him by name. Ben stepped in and did all the things Tim wouldn’t, like smile and answer kindly but firmly that it was a police matter and not open for discussion. 

“You’re a hero,” one of the reporters--older than Tim, with thinning hair and a wrinkled shirt--insisted. “A true hero, a patriot. And what a shot. _What a shot!_ ” 

“You say that to the kid’s family?” Tim mumbled, then regretted it when he heard the scratching of pens against paper. 

“I was there,” the other shared. “When they pulled his body out--coroners, not EMT. No need for that, am I right? I was _right there,_ man.”

“Wow, tell me more.”

The dull drone of Tim’s voice had finally given away to the reporters what was somehow imperceptible through his body language. Tim stood from his chair and readied to take long, sure steps to cross the waiting room and escape his unwanted company. “I gotta take a shit. Either of you makes the mistake of following me into the bathroom, you can blow me.” 

Ben was less than pleased with Tim’s showing, but knew it would have been worse. Tim hoped Art shared that sentiment when his bad press got back to the U.S. Marshal Service.

Not wanting to return home and address the things Tim had said, they wasted a few hours at a Home Depot, where Ben sold Tim on a number of plants and shrubs that would survive the cold. Tim, wanting of a task as the notion of an entire week off work loomed heavy on his mind, made the purchase and with it, bought a little more time outdoors, even as a cold evening approached. 

Ultimately, however, Tim was left to stand off to the side, heavily bundled, feeling useless as Ben upended his empty front garden. He said as much, equal parts angry and apologetic.

“You could sing for me,” Ben suggested. His hands and the knees of his jeans were dark with wet soil. “Keep me entertained.” 

“And overshadow your comedy routine?” Tim asked pointedly, then picked up a small shovel. He took a knee and turned so as to hide his smile from Ben. They’d sang karaoke together a number of times when their relief schedules coincided. Tim was fairly certain their first effort was in Taksim, but he’d been pretty drunk--had to be, in those days, when he’d strictly identified Ben as a friend and himself, as not interested. They stumbled onto a stage after a Korean couple and belted out a duet. Ben liked to claim the two of them fucking up the _Umm boom bah day / umm boom bah bay / umm bah boom bah bay day_ s in _Under Pressure_ was when he first fell a little bit in love with Tim. Tim thought that reflected poorly on them both.

When Raylan returned, he saw Ben’s transformative work on the front lawn, as well as the sweat beading on Tim’s brow as he tried to dig one-handed into frozen earth. He smiled.

“We’re nesting,” Tim said flatly, although his tone belied his good mood. For once, he didn’t mind if Raylan was smiling or smirking or shitting himself. Tim was proud of what he had; it was worth smiling at.

\- 

There was leftover pizza, but that night Ben cooked a meal. The kind of meal, no less, that hadn’t seen the inside of Tim’s kitchen since the house was occupied by a young married couple doomed to incomprehensible sadness and loss. Chicken, rice, and asparagus were all awash in a soupy yellow spread that looked like the kind of home-cooking only found in magazines and the wet dreams of sweet old grandmothers.

It was delicious, but Tim couldn’t finish his plate. “It’s good,” he assured. Raylan unceremoniously took Tim’s plate and scraped away what was left for his own. 

“It’s easy to make,” Ben said.

“I’d just fuck it up." 

Tim sounded coy and friendly, not at all self-deprecating. And sure as the stetson on his head, Raylan knew that game. He’d _mastered_ that game. Tim was angling for Ben to opt for a more permanent stay.

The turn in their conversation, however, didn’t seem to lend itself to that idea. 

Tim had a few beers in him by that point and asked easily, “You seein’ anybody?” 

“Mhmm,” Ben affirmed, casting only a fleeting look at Raylan, who was still sat at the table with them. “Omar. An amature lightweight boxer.”

“Shit,” Tim said, but was grinning.

“Much taller than you.”

“ _Shit._ ” Tim grinned wider. 

\- 

As the week progressed, Raylan was glad for Ben’s presence. He couldn’t imagine Tim otherwise, bouncing off the walls and wanting for work, over doing things with alcohol when his mind wasn’t occupied. That was Tim’s method: sate his hunger or numb it. There was no ignoring his instincts. 

Tuesday was slow and lazy; by the looks of things, Tim and Ben never once changed out of the previous night’s sleep clothes--Ben’s, borrowed from Tim. Tuesday night, however, brought a nightmare and a lie, which Raylan overheard. After Tim was rattled from his gasping sleep, he was quick to issue a loud and assured proclamation: _I just rolled over on my arm. S'just my arm._

Wednesday brought them a second surprise guest--Art, stopping by because Tim had ignored one too many of his phone calls. Even before introducing (“my friend”) Ben, Tim went straight for the fridge to collect some beers. 

Tim had done this before--sat before his boss and lied through his teeth. It was easier, he found, when he did not have to contend with an audience who knew otherwise. But Raylan had his promise to keep, and Ben followed Tim’s direction--out of practice or spite, it didn’t matter. 

Art asked some questions and Tim gave immediate assurances--most of which were lies, but Tim was willing to do anything to expedite the visit. Naturally, Art operated to the contrary. Drinking with two of his Marshals wasn’t something they’d done in a while, not since the Truth Family Debacle, which Art couldn’t mention without going into detail. Ben was subjected to the whole sordid tale of Drew Thompson, cocaine coming to Harlan County, and the manhunt led by the U.S. Marshal’s Lexington office.

"And now we've got this," Art said, gesturing at Tim's laid-up arm, "And your smart mouth," he added. "I hope you amused yourself, because I had to do damage control today." 

"I always amuse myself," Tim defended lamely, but Art could tell by his tone that Tim was trying for apologetic. 

Art checked his watch and instructed Tim to tune to the local news station. 

A weather report and school closings passed before the news anchor returned to the ongoing story of the recent shooting that found both "hero and villain" pitted against one another in the VA hospital. 

"Yes," Tim drawled. "Good. Good reporting."

A picture of the shooter took up the entire screen, then, and Tim felt every sarcastic inclination leave him.

He had previously refrained from getting a good look at the kid. Tim hadn't known, for instance, that he had bright blues eyes and a smattering of dark freckles across his nose, cheeks, and brow. The piece turned celebratory when Tim's face appeared on the screen--the photo from his key card used to access the court house, first, as well as the image found on his military ID. He was introduced as a recent veteran, current Deputy U.S. Marshal, "and lifelong hero."

" _Jesus Christ,_ " Tim muttered, mortified. 

"It gets better," Art cackled. 

Tim’s gaze drifted to the ceiling. "Am I among America's best and brightest, too?"

"Let's not get carried away," Art chastised.

"Must be a slow news week," Raylan observed as they watched the rest of the piece for Art's brief statement of “complete support" for the actions of the youngest Marshal in his office. 

“That was scripted,” Art said, wrinkling his nose. 

Tim left the couch in search of more, very necessary alcohol. "I would have genuinely preferred a public hanging." 

"Maybe give another impromptu interview," Raylan suggested, having heard from Ben the choice words Tim had imparted on two reporters staked out at the hospital. 

When Ben excused himself to the bathroom, Art joked, “Is he…” he waffled, then gestured loosely with his wrist, “Or is he just very Canadian?” 

Tim, stood at the edge of the living room, didn’t go pale or stumble over his words like Raylan always vaguely figured he might, being presented with such a direct question on the matter. Glass to his lips--he’d moved from beer to bourbon--Tim answered smoothly, without a hint of the anxiety that was surely churning in his stomach and lapping up his esophagus, “Well, there’s a reason his is a country of only 34 million.” 

When Art removed himself to Tim's still-empty front parlor to answer a phone call, Ben had a few choice words in return.

“Your boss is hysterical,” Ben said, ignorant to the commentary made upon his person. “Why aren’t you out to him?” 

“Don’t,” Tim said lowly, the mere notion bringing a swell of nausea to his throat. 

Ben pressed, “I think he’d be… receptive.”

Tim swallowed down the rest of his bourbon. “Am I coming out to him or presenting my cherry red ass?” 

Turning elsewhere for support, Ben asked, “Raylan?” 

“I’d rather not take sides,” Raylan answered, which made Tim smile a little and broke the tension some. Tim didn’t even like talking about this himself; having an open, spirited debate was downright mortifying. Raylan left the couch for the kitchen, physically committing himself to how much he _did not_ want to be involved. 

Tim hunched over and gave Joe, who was stretched out at his feet, a belly rub. Shakey Joe’s disposition around company was decidedly nonchalant; he wouldn’t make much of a guard dog, but the house really only needed one, anyway. When Tim returned to sit upright, he was confronted by Ben’s persistent, pinched expression. 

“No, man,” Tim said, dropping his voice some--more due to Raylan’s presence than Art’s, now. “He reads the Bible. A lot.”

Ben adopted a sort of playful, half-smile. They’d had this conversation once or twice before. “I read the Quran.” 

“But you’re a terrible Muslim,” Tim reasoned. “Don’t look at me like that. I like that you’re shit at your religion.” 

“I think I just have a more inclusive interpretation.”

“Well, Art don’t.”

“So a good Christian wouldn’t accept you being gay, but a bad Muslim--” 

“Will join me in the act,” Tim supplied, grinning. “Glad you’re seeing things my way.”

Ben watched Tim pour himself another two fingers of bourbon--his third since Art had left the room. “I really don’t, Tim.”

They listened for Art, gauging the time left in his conversation with his wife. 

"Do you not want me to be Muslim, Tim?" 

"Oh fuck, you've figured me out. And if you could get Mexican citizenship, that'd be swell." Tim paused to listen again. "This has nothing to do with you," his tone was clipped and sure; even a little mean. "I'm not telling my boss shit, okay? Jesus, Ben. That’s my job on the line. Don’t guilt trip me here, man.” 

"I shouldn't have to, no..." 

"But I should have to explain myself," Tim said into his glass. 

"Can you explain me?" Ben challenged. "Without lying through your teeth?" 

Tim blinked confusedly; whatever their trial runs through this conversation, they never got so pointed and personal. "Are you having a stroke? That'd be explanation enough for me." 

Art returned for one last drink, never having overheard a word. 

Wednesday brought a mid-day snowstorm and, for Raylan, just enough of a reason to leave work a few hours early. He came home to find two pairs of boots wet and muddy on the porch and their owners lazing cozy on the couch, Joe between them. The previous night’s discussion seemed to have no lasting impact on the pair. Tim had a fantasy novel in hand, while Ben poured over some heavier reading--Raylan remembered a vague comment regarding a doctoral program, one of those things mentioned at dinner but leapfrogged over with a joke or wry comment. Sometimes, Tim folded his book closed and read Ben’s, just a paragraph or two, or the notes Ben scribbled in the margins. 

It crept into their work, sometimes--the fact that Tim had never gone to college or garnered his education the conventional way. Never in any official capacity, of course, but in passing. A comment from Deputy Dunlop that fugitives were getting younger and younger these days, and how when he was that age, he was chasing sorority girls and running from house mothers, not evading federal authorities. He’d get some _hear hears_ or a smattering of knowing laughs. Never from Tim, who might have made a joke in his stead, but didn’t, not since someone tried to make one for him. _Like running from the Taliban, right, Gutterson?_

_We didn’t run._

And the _same guy, of course,_ jumped at the chance to try the joke again in a similar context, thinking _this time it will land. This time it won’t be tasteless._ Tim had zero patience the second time around and answered sharply, _I dunno, Deputy Mackie. Is it SOP to blow the heads off sorority mothers?_

None of those slightly skewed realities seemed to touch Tim there, on the couch sat next to Ben. Tim seemed comfortable in a way he hadn’t been with Hank, let alone any nameless others.

There was music playing from an open laptop on the coffee table, something new but remorseful, that reminded Raylan of Winona, barefoot, cajoling him into a slow waltz on the hardwood floors of their first house. Maybe Tim thought this too, occasionally swaying like he did against Ben’s side, greeting the soft denim that hadn’t been washed in days, and the maroon sweater Ben alternated with his one other shirt. Unlike the stylish blue shirt with the stiff collar, the sweater was old, had permanent pit stains, and was fraying at the neck.

(Later that night, Raylan heard the song again seeping out from under the closed door to Tim's bedroom. This time, he thought he did hear the shift of feet against the wood planks of the floor. It was enough to make him vomit, but he was already using the toilet to piss.)

The Wednesday storm silently carried into Thursday, shifting from snow to ice in the early morning hours. Although not as bad as predicted, it upturned the entire backyard. Every tree and blade of grass leaned to the right, heavy with an icy topcoat. Branches, although bent, broken, and splintered, glittered beautifully in the weak morning light. City-wide panic--although instantaneous--was needless; the ice hardly touched any of the main roads. Raylan took the day, feeling wary of other drivers and protective of his own vehicle. 

Which was why when Tim, bored and stir-crazy, voiced his desire to hit up a bar, Raylan took interest. When Tim said he’d drive, Raylan was sold.

Ben was up for it, because while he didn’t drink anymore, going out with Tim was a rare and coveted opportunity.

\- 

They ended up at Lindsey's bar after nearer venues proved less committed to the needs of their patrons, and were closed due to the weather. 

"This is where Raylan used to live," Tim informed Ben upon their arrival. "And not in the, _falls asleep under the tables most nights_ way, neither.”

With a glance at Tim, Ben conferred to Raylan, “In some circles, that’s quite the accomplishment.” 

“I never pass out drunk,” Tim said, making a face. “Not _here_ , anyway.”

The bar was relatively crowded, with more than enough college students than Raylan, in his years, found desirable. 

Tim and Ben found a table--something situated so that Tim, his back to a wall, could survey the area--while Raylan splintered off and rustled up some free samples from the bar (“For old time’s sake.”). A few local brews in sickly green bottles with minimalistic labels (literally a name tag with the brew’s make number and a gmail address to contact the self-described artists), as well as a hastily procured coke joined their little party. 

Tim steered and redirected the conversation into work--his own and Raylan’s, or Ben’s. He got less clever about it as the night and his tab progressed. 

Ben understood it--somewhat. Raylan was more hip to the tactic than Tim had expected, but it made sense. Raylan had worked a lot of other locations outside of Kentucky and, like Tim, he knew not to shit where he ate. It was a small office, a small city, comparatively. Not the kind of place a man could get lost in; no, there would always be some familiar face, a lingering word, a story to tell. Raylan likened it to driving fifty miles outside of Lexington to spend a night out with Winona--unexpectedly seeing Tim there only helped drive the point home. Considering Tim’s present company, Raylan decided to save that story for another day.

When talk of work was exhausted, Raylan adopted a wry smile and spoke coolly, “Sex, politics, or religion. Pick your poison.”

“American foreign policy,” Ben said, toasting with his coke bottle. “Where do I start?”

They were all three relieved when a live band assembled and began to play a few covers; it meant Tim could relax for a time. Raylan wandered off to flirt with the bartender hired as Lindsey’s replacement, leaving Tim with a smirk and a story to tell. Ben leaned in a little closer--to compensate for the added noise, in interest of Raylan’s shenanigans, whatever. The reason he told himself didn’t matter. He felt Tim’s warm breath graze the side of his face, could smell the alcohol he pretended he didn’t sometimes miss, and heard every dropped consonant in Tim’s lazy drawl. This was an intimacy with Tim unavailable to him in the confines of Tim’s home; there, they went straight for the strong stuff and rarely bothered with this, the innocuous public foreplay.

Raylan, rebuffed by the redheaded bartender, returned to the table for the end of his own sorry story. 

Ben looked confused. _“...Chickens?”_

“For a cock-fighting ring,” Raylan elaborated without missing a beat. “It’s the stuff of legend.”

“And the redhead still turned you down?” Ben asked, grinning.

“He probably didn’t tell it right,” Tim teased, finishing his beer. 

Ben shook his head. And here he'd thought the Dreew Thompson debacle was outlandish. He stood and stretched his legs, then nodded to Tim. “Another?”

Tim, who was scratching around the gauze and bandages just visible an inch or so outside the short sleeve of his t-shirt, stilled. “You buying? You’re the best-worst Muslim I know.”

“Remember that on Friday when I’ll have your car,” Ben said, still in decidedly friendly territory. 

It was only Tim who frowned some, then. “You’re gonna need directions. Place is hard to spot.”

“You’ve been?”

“Security detail a few months back,” Tim admitted, shrugging one apologetic shoulder. He added, “I volunteered,” which made Ben smile.

“Raylan?” Ben gestured to the Marshal’s bourbon, rapidly swelling with melted ice. 

“What he’s having,” Raylan nodded, then behind Ben’s back, cast Tim a questioning look.

“Threat on a mosque couple’a months ago,” Tim said, going into about as much detail as he had, previously. “Couldn’t afford big private security, so along with what the state sent, there was a call for volunteers.”

“How many answered that call?” Raylan wondered aloud. 

Tim toyed with his empty bottle and combated Raylan’s genuine curiosity with a dead-eyed stare of his own. “All three of us got a real nice mention in the monthly newsletter.” 

“I didn’t hear about it,” Raylan mused--not defensively, because he probably had something going on at the time, like Winona or paperwork or a seriously overwhelming Netflix queue. 

Tim, seeing Raylan’s abandoned glass, took and drank the remaining amber liquid. “You’re not a big joiner.”

Across the bar, Ben had ordered another round of beers. “And a coke,” he added, catching the eye of the redhead Raylan had failed to sufficiently woo. 

A man sat at the bar with a whiskey in hand scoffed at the order and said, _“Fag.”_

“Huh,” Ben turned to smile at the man, who wore a brown coat atop his oil-stained shirt and a baseball cap over his balding head. “You probably didn’t expect to get that right.”

Tim heard it across the room--a booming accusation that this was not some _shitty fag bar_ \--and was out of his seat and at Ben’s side in an instant. He didn’t throw himself at the loud-mouthed offender, but rather stood in waiting, assessing the situation. His expression was none too pleasant, however, and the large man rightly pegged Tim as someone angling for a fight. 

“This a fuckin’ joke?” the man slurred, gesturing at Tim. “You got one arm. I ain’t gonna fight a fag with one arm.”

“I broke it fist-fucking your mother,” Tim returned coolly. “If that helps.”

Raylan came to stand in Tim’s corner, gesturing to the redheaded bartender to _hold,_ knowing that there was a shotgun Lindsey had kept under the bar for exactly such demonstrations of drunken exuberance. 

The bar’s denizens continued to drink, play pool, and wait out the cold, snowy evening. They’d retreated to the bar like cattle, seeking familiar warmth and stale comfort. At most, they turned in their seats, eager for a better view of some uneven fight--not the first that night, and surely not the last. 

The man--because he was an accomplished drunk or because he was short--stayed sat on the barstool, where he had a few inches over Tim. Raylan felt the situation was over before it even began; Tim wouldn’t throw the first punch and the man could continue berrading Tim from his post and not get shit for it. 

But Tim didn’t seem like the walking away type, either. Not when drunk, certainly. That was too close to retreat, and as Tim had previously established--he didn’t run from a fight.

A fight which progressed on some other plane beyond the bar; it existed only between the man’s wits and Tim’s patience. So there sat the man, spewing garbage from his barstool and Tim, slicing him open with sharp returns or merely a look in the hopes that something in the harsh exchange would take them to a place of fists and blood and broken bones. Their short, angry bursts were peppered by the bartender’s cajoling that they cut this shit out, kick each others’ teeth in or have another beer.

Beside the man, a skinny, bleary eyed patron in a similarly oily shirt as his friend blinked at Tim uncertainly. Then, in a bright voice that belied his drunken state, he said, “Hey, don't I know you from someplace?” 

Tim spared him a glance, quickly determining the slither man as inconsequential to what Tim still hoped was a pending battle. 

But the man persisted, clapping the shit-stirrer on the arm. “Shit. You’re the fella on the news. _Shit,_ Frank. It’s that fella on the news.”

The larger man--Frank--squinted at Tim, who now wanted a fight more than ever.

“Shit, fella,” Frank laughed. “You done nearly died once this week. What the hell.”

Tim felt a hand at his elbow--Ben’s--as if to say, _Sorry, hon. You missed out. This is over._

Tim remained steadfast, not letting Frank’s comment die. “You gonna apologize?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry buddy,” he moved to shake Tim’s hand. Tim looked at the hand blankly and did not move to grasp it. 

“To _him,_ asshole.” 

Frank looked at Ben, standing to Tim’s left. “Sorry man. Didn’t know you were actually a f--a gay.” Frank grinned stupidly, like he deserved the Nobel Peace Prize for catching himself. 

The fight left Tim; Frank was an idiot, no doubt about that, but his name-calling carried no real threat. Still, when Ben moved to pay for the drinks the bartender had finally produced, Tim stalled his efforts. “Nope,” Tim said, as cold and sure as he was still hopeful for a fight. He looked Frank dead in the eyes. “You’ve got this round, don’t you, _buddy?_ ”

Tim, still frustrated and wired, downed half his beer before returning to the table where, instead of taking his seat, he hooked his free hand to the back of Ben’s neck and captured him in a kiss as dirty as Tim could manage. Open-mouthed and prying, he willed Ben into the endeavor. Unprepared for the display, Raylan’s eyebrows disappeared under his hat. He brought his own drink to his lips and suddenly found the woodwork on the far wall of the bar decidedly interesting. 

Pulling away, Ben’s brow was drawn in confusion. “Easy, there. Any more and I won’t be fit to drive.”

Red-lipped and grinning, Tim took up his beer again. “Aw, shit. Sorry. Shit. Does that count?”

“S’okay. Making out with a man may have superseded it.”

“Oh. Good.” Tim leaned in and stole another drunken kiss. 

\- 

“So, that happened.”

The temperature had dropped five, maybe ten degrees. The cold assaulted their senses, dampened though they were with a few too many drinks. Raylan, who was used to only trudging up a flight of stairs while drinking in such familiar territory, indulged more than he’d planned. And Tim just hadn’t _stopped._

Ben, who had only partaken in the backwash present in Tim’s mouth, settled into the driver’s seat of Tim’s SUV. Tim had amassed a number more drinks prior to their departure, and was warmly drunk, settling into the passenger’s side. The first words out of his mouth were, naturally, “If Raylan wasn’t in the back seat I’d blow you right now.” 

Then Tim shifted, curious. “Oh, wait--”

“Yeah, Tim,” Raylan voiced, aggravated. “I’m here.”

“Just checking if maybe you were asleep.” 

“So considerate, your man,” Raylan said to Ben.

Tim snorted. “I have my moments.”

Ben could still taste Tim on his lips, in his mouth. And the alcohol, too, but all of it together--the desperation, the want, the violence--spoke only of Tim. It made Ben a little crazy, then, to taste something he’d denied himself for so long. The alcohol was one thing, but he’d gone years without Tim, sometimes, too. But even months and weeks felt like an eternity, never mind that distance, occupation, or any number of other needless distractions stalled more frequent visits. Ben had met Tim during a _war_ , one that Tim had been stripped of, his part in it erased. 

Just as well as Tim, Ben knew a lot of guys that carried the war with them, had the violence and chaos playing on a loop at the backs of their eyes. Tim fell into that sometimes, when doubt laced his bones and he found himself in a situation that felt all too familiar. More than that, however, Tim’s problem wasn’t so much that he relived his experiences as he’d... been burned by them. 

It wasn’t the war he carried with him, it was the seared flesh of his departure that dogged Tim constantly. Like the scar on his side, it itched. 

Harsh yellow light from street lamps flooded the car at regular intervals. When Ben made his move to glance at Tim, he only came to find the other man already staring intently, his boyish face indulged in an easy smile. 

“I forgot my coat,” Tim said in his most apologetic, lazy drawl. 

“No,” Ben shook his head. “I got it. It’s in the back seat.”

And Tim looked _floored._

“Aw, man,” Tim blinked unevenly. “Thank you. Thanks, man.”

Ben took a harsh left and veered off the road, rolling to a sharp stop on the gravelly shoulder. Raylan said something inscrutable from the backseat, but Ben ignored him. 

“You wanna marry me, Tim?”

“No,” Tim said at once, angry that his head had knocked against the window in Ben’s unexpected turn. Then, “What?” And finally, “I can’t get married. Idiot.” 

“Sure you can,” Ben said, his tone decidedly light despite the gravity of his question. Both his hands were secured tight on the wheel. “In Ontario. I could sponsor you for immigrant status.” 

“Ben… no,” Tim wet his lips, tried to concentrate, uncertain if this was a conversation he was having anyplace other than his imagination. “I’m kind of particular to the country I served in a war for. Oddly enough.” 

With that, Ben swerved the car, driving it back onto the main road-- _again_ catching Tim off guard. 

Tim rubbed his head, careful of a blossoming bruise. “Wow. ‘m drunk.” 

“Tim…”

“Let’s go home,” Tim said, again in a daze. “Go home.”

“Home. Where you’re a second class citizen.” Ben eyed the roads. They were largely empty, dark, and carried no familiar icy sheen. “I could never live here.”

“Well I ain’t askin’.” Tim said, although he hadn’t meant to. He continued, his voice raw and unbecoming of the invitation it carried. “I gotta get shot every time I want to see you? That’s fine, I’ve got other limbs.”

It wasn’t his place--Raylan distinctly _knew this as a fact_ \--but he couldn’t help himself. He had the gall to sound appalled, asking from the back seat, “Ten years, and you’ve never discussed your… living situation?”

“Lucky us, we got an expert on shitty noncommittal decision making,” Tim threw back and then, like he had at the bar, Tim fell into a deeply angry, quiet place. He watched the road ahead of them, noting the snow and ice clinging to the grassy sides and overhanging trees. With a kind of lifeless enthusiasm that Raylan recognized as the tone Tim adopted when he wanted to be taken seriously and not--imagined or no--be made fun of, Tim puzzled, “You didn’t come all this way to ask me to marry you.”

The last two words were a joke; Tim spat them out angrily.

“No,” Ben answered promptly. “But I hoped you’d had enough here--”

“You _hoped_ I was having a shitty time?”

“I hoped you understood that this place was no good for you.” Ben pulled into Tim’s driveway, and Tim had opened the door and barreled out even before the car had fully come to a stop.

“Kentucky?” he asked, loud and indignant. _The place I found a good job and do good work?_

Looking as though he’d heard Tim’s unspoken defense of his new home, Ben wished he could will him to understand what seemed so obvious. Hell, it was something Raylan had figured his first night.

“This _house._ ”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone feels feelings and then TAKES A COUPLE THOUSAND WORDS TO DISCUSS THEM?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know whether this thing just got away from me, or if the little vein I’m following would naturally progress through Raylan and Tim’s home lives and into their work lives. This is certainly the last time I start anything without a plan. :/ I think the emotional arc is on its way to hitting the last low I need it to, though, and then I’ll be done, done, done, and free to enjoy the real stuff now that the show is back in full force!

“This ain’t about the house.”

“It’s a little about the house.”

Tim was sat at his kitchen table because he didn’t want to occupy the bedroom any longer than was necessary after a night of unfit sleep. Ben joined him, two mugs of coffee in hand. Tim only stared at his, not wanting to clear his head from his hangover just yet. 

“It’s a great deal,” Tim said facetiously. 

“For what you’re paying, you could get a nice apartment.”

“Same price for half the space,” Tim dismissed the idea quickly. 

“Because you’re so dedicated to all this? An empty parlor, empty basement, empty second room--”

“Raylan’s there.”

“Temporarily.” 

“I need the yard for the dog--”

“ _Raylan’s dog._ ”

Their tones were easy, cool--as if both didn’t know exactly what they were really talking about. 

Ben, feeling he’d won one argument, went on the tackle another: “You sleep in the bedroom where a man killed himself, Tim. I know you tell it like a joke, but that’s not funny.”

Outside, the ice had inflicted one lasting insult before melting: snapping a number of branches in the woods behind Tim’s home. The lines of trees were jagged and sharp, now, and the neat snow beneath them, disturbed. Tim noticed it earlier that morning and couldn’t see it now, with his back turned to the living room, deck, woods--all of it. 

He only saw the man who, just one day ago, had awoken with a grin on his face as Tim’s good hand pumped his dick a few times. Tim had fondled him a while more, teasing Ben’s balls where they hung from a dense patch of public hair dusted over soft skin. The sheets they shared began to tent and Tim eventually traded his hand for his mouth. It took some maneuvering, given his laid up arm, but sticky and warm and short of breath, the end result was satisfactory. They hadn’t shared a word, and Tim thought now how much he wished that facet of their relationship could be applied elsewhere. 

Tim shrugged, then translated for Ben’s benefit: “I don’t know what to tell you.” 

“You were so good with my family, those times you visited,” Ben couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “And my friends. And it was an actual shock, seeing you here… like this.” 

“Raylan ain’t that bad.” 

It was yet another joke which Ben didn’t respond positively to. “He doesn’t know anything about you. The way he looks at you, even, like he’s shocked when you do anything other than breathe.”

“Yeah,” Tim agreed dryly, wondering when this became the _Home Edition_ of the _Raylan Givens’ Moral Character Is Called Into Question: An AUSA Adventure_ game. “I’ve had a talk with him about that.” 

It wasn’t the right tone to take, certainly. 

Wide-eyed and tight-lipped, Ben said, “O-kay. I’m not even…”

“Oh, please. Give me a little credit.”

Ben’s accusatory stare shifted to his coffee mug. “Why does he even live here? I feel like I still don’t know.”

“You’ve met him,” Tim reasoned easily. “He’s a fuck-up.” 

It wasn’t a worthy answer, no matter how unfounded Ben’s doubts were. Tim’s second attempt was poorer still. “Would you believe I’m getting kickbacks from the state, babysitting him?”

“He is a grown man,” Ben returned flatly.

“I know, they should double my hourly wages.” Tim took an orange left out on the table in his hand, feeling its rough skin give under the force of his interest as he gave it a light squeeze. “He needed a place.” 

“So… he needed your place. For six months?” 

“Almost seven.” Tim caught the fleeting, aggravated look on Ben’s face and called him on it. “Really? That's your sticking point? You just got finished telling me about all my wasted space.” 

Knowing this line of questioning was weak and petty, Ben moved on. His voice softened, grew warm and inviting. “I don’t want you to be homeless, you know. I’m offering an alternative.” 

“I can’t.”

Ben very distinctly heard the period in that sentence.

“If it’s about work, getting a permit is tricky but _I promise you_ we can figure it out. What would be the harm in some time off, though, huh?” Ben could see he was losing his argument. He sighed, shook his head. “You did so much for them. What are they doing for you?”

Tim’s head lolled back, lazy and unimpressed. “Did President Kennedy say that?”

“I’m serious, Tim.” With anyone else, Ben would have been very quickly losing his patience. But despite his disinterested drawl and sharp retorts, Tim never meant any harm and was never glib. Sat in sweats and a snug light blue t-shirt clearly chosen because Tim felt he had to make a good showing after their miserable night, Tim was attentive. He heard Ben's every word. Despite all evidence to the contrary, and everything of himself that Tim put forward to the world, he was just as concerned as Ben that their world was ending. “This is fucked up. How many of your friends survived all that awful shit, only to come home and take their own lives? Or hurt a loved one?”

“I would never hurt you.”

The omission, there, was deafening. 

Ben dropped his head into his hands, giving up. “I can’t tell which is real, anymore. The way you are with me, or the way you are here.”

“I’m always real with you,” Tim said. Ben didn’t know which was worse: Tim lying so easily or lying so often. “Don’t know how well that’s served me, but--”

“You aren’t, though,” Ben said, his head snapping to attention. “Even last night, kissing me--it was something you worked out in your head, weighed the pros and cons. You could get away with doing that, sticking up for me and then throwing something back in that guy’s face. It looked like a joke.” 

“Did it feel like a joke?” Tim said, a little offended, yes, but mostly playing it up because Ben wasn’t entirely wrong and Tim didn’t like that he’d been caught. 

“No. It hurt.” 

Tim fell into an uncomfortable silence. _I’m sorry. I hurt you and I’m sorry._ It was what Tim might have said if he could find anything inside him other than profound self-loathing. Any shred of love, want, or desperation might have saved his skin, but he couldn’t will himself to give it voice.

“I guess what I want to ask… I already know the answer to. So maybe don’t lie to me when I ask it anyway. Are you okay?”

Tim didn’t know how to answer. They didn’t _do_ this. For ten years, they could pick up and go, always just happy the other was still alive, and given the place of their meeting, that was enough. Having now both returned to their respective homes, Tim didn’t understand the language Ben was using with him, didn’t understand there was anything that needed to be said other than, _I’m here. I’m alive. Wanna fuck?_

He took a breath and found himself where he’d been the first night of Ben’s stay, still rattled from the shooting, speaking thoughtless truths. _I think I’m scared._

“I’m scared of what I’ve been doing. What I might do. I just get out of my head sometimes.” Honest enough, yet still vague. Tim could have stopped there, a winner, but the hurt in Ben’s voice--and the hurt he’d admitted to--kept Tim going. He wet his lips and plunged deeper for the right words, and the courage to have them heard. 

“I keep thinking how it used to be worse so this must be better, but it doesn’t feel that way.” Tim scratched absently at his arm. When he next spoke, it was dull and matter-of-fact. “When I got back I was ready to blow my brains out. Every morning, I thought about it. I don’t know what I was waiting for. Then O’Brien beat me to it and it seemed wrong, ‘cause,” Tim trailed off, unable to voice what had stayed his trigger finger, or if indeed he’d dealt with those feelings entirely. 

His face brightened--just an upturned lip and a crinkled eye--and he continued, “And then you called. Like nothing had changed. And I didn’t lose you like I lost every other fucking thing.” Tim wet his lips. “And I know that’s a shitty reason to want you to stay, but I’m a shitty person. As you are probably aware. But yeah, I’m okay. With you, I’m good.”

Ben pressed the palms of his hands against his eye sockets, took a breath and tried to weather through Tim’s answer--and Tim’s request. “It’s complicated--”

“It’s simple,” Tim pressed. He thought about reaching over the table and resting a hand on Ben’s forearm, but refrained. “I need you.”

“That’s not simple, Tim.” 

Ben’s eyes traveled away from Tim and he held up a hand, staying further conversation. “You want to talk someplace more private?”

Tim blinked, found that Raylan was standing in the kitchen, and realized he hadn’t noticed his approach. 

As if bearing his heart wasn’t embarrassing enough. 

Tim pushed away from the table. “Yeah.”

Raylan didn’t move an inch, despite his response. “I’m leaving.” 

“Promises, promises,” Tim drawled, reining himself in. He stayed in the chair, a kind of pointed protest Raylan was used to. He rolled the orange around in his hand before puncturing it with his thumbnail, then unraveling the skin in one single fleshy curl. Tim noisily ate a wedge, then slurped at the juice escaping down his hand. The picture of benevolent insolence, as Art once termed it.

Even in the morning, Raylan could still see the previous night’s disaster. Tim was quieter now, ashamed, and Ben had no more proposals to share. If Thursday night was the initial wound, Friday morning was the exsanguination. 

Ben spared him a half-smile as Raylan finally took his leave. 

The disruption gave him enough time to consider a new approach, a way of speaking to Tim about expectations and realities in a way they could both relate.

“It’s like--the drinking. I didn’t know that. How could I not know that?”

“ _The Drinking,_ ” Tim echoed, dismayed. It sounded like a chapter title in a self-help book. “The fuck does that mean? Yes, I drink.”

“You drink a lot.”

Tim gestured to his injured arm. “You caught me at kind of a bad time.” Then, quieter, because he believed himself to be in the right, here, "I’ve been home all week. I don’t drink on the job.”

"Of course," Ben said, not doubting Tim for a second. The job came first for Tim--always. "And I'd love a drink every now and then, and no, it wouldn't kill me to indulge, but I've chosen to stop. I've changed in a lot of ways since we've known each other--good changes that I'd like to share with you." After a beat, Ben amended: "And no, I don't mean to convert you. Religion hasn't made me a _complete_ idiot, thank you."

Tim spared a small smile at that. He'd never admitted being against Ben's return to Islam, because his reasons were purely selfish--but Ben had been aware of Tim's doubts, and instead of cutting Tim out of his life he waited him out. If it made Ben happy, he knew Tim wouldn't oppose it indefinitely. 

Returning to Ben's main point, Tim pressed, "If it's such a problem, why buy me a drink? Or listen to any of the shit I say when I'm drunk?" His temper flared, believing for a second that Ben had wanted this all along and manufactured the situation. “The fuck am I wasting my breath for, huh? You’ve already made your decision. _The_ decision.”

“This will be good for both of us.”

“Don’t fucking embarrass yourself, saying shit like that. I get it. I understand.” Tim didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t have to. “I knew this was coming. You wouldn't let me get shitfaced if anything good was going to happen.”

“There’s no stopping you,” Ben said--short, pointed, and hell… Tim had to give it to him, there.

Tim drank half of his coffee in an attempt to make a clean break from his hangover. “What if I got better?”

Ben knew Tim well enough to hear what he wasn’t saying: _what if I got better at hiding it?_ The alcohol, the episodes, the nightmares, the anxiety, the way it all disappeared when he held a rifle and found a target. 

"That would be great for you," Ben said diplomatically. “It was different before. You know what I mean.”

“It’s not so different,” Tim said, knowing a _no_ when he heard one. He decided to react childishly in turn. “I’m glad you’ve still got your job and it’s paying for your school.”

“Tim…” 

Tim brought his coffee to his lips again. “Just like it was before. What’s really changed?”

Ben knew what Tim was getting at--the sore fact that everything that _had_ changed was well and truly dependent on Tim and his military discharge.

“I worry about you, when I'm gone. You're so... Smart, and resourceful, and determined. And none of those are good things for you.”

Tim snorted softly at that. By all accounts, he was a success. “I got ten fingers, ten toes, arms and legs. I’m a happy, healthy boy.”

“That’s the last thing you are,” Ben muttered.

It suddenly struck Tim as strange that he was hearing these things over his kitchen table. Most he spoke with Ben in recent years was through e-mail pleasantries and updates. He and Raylan didn’t really _talk_ , and even then Raylan didn’t know the right buttons to push. Tim only heard such harsh assessments of his character in his own voice, in his head, before he drowned them in something aged ten years. “So why’s this taken you ten years to say to me?”

It was another instance where Ben might have dropped his head into his hands, exhausted and unbelieving of Tim’s apparent emotional blindspot. He didn’t; Ben looked Tim dead in the eyes. “Because I loved you. _I still love you._ I hoped… I wanted a lot of things for us. Good things. If you can’t believe that you deserve good things, Tim, you’ll just end up destroying them.”

Tim couldn’t let that go without the slimmest, dryest smile. “Am I destroying you?” 

“You’re breaking my heart.” 

“Pussy.” 

Ben scooted his chair loudly across Tim’s kitchen floor, stopping only when he was sat nearer to Tim. He brought a hand to rest on Tim’s neck where it was cold against flushed skin. Tim turned his head against the length of Ben’s forearm and pressed an absent-minded kiss into the crook of Ben’s arm. If he could spare the perfect, stalling word now would be his chance. Ben was open and willing and _wanting_ of exactly that--an invitation to some dangerous leap, a running start over certain death. 

Tim leaned back and stared at the ceiling. 

“Okay.”

Their talk left Tim with a few things to think about while Ben took off that afternoon for prayer services at a local mosque. Tim, very much _not_ wanting to think about those things, indulged in some pain medication and a sleeping pill, figuring it’d put him out for the greater part of the afternoon. 

As he allowed himself to be swallowed up by an artificial darkness, Tim rested a hand on his belly. Although impossible, he thought he could feel the scar on his side through the fabric of his shirt. Digging under the hem of his shirt and waist of his sweats, Tim felt the unnatural ridges and dips in his flesh--an alien landscape, a little piece of Afghanistan. 

That the shrapnel hadn’t found his femoral artery was a miracle--or so he’d been told. Tim saw it another way: the rusty piece of metal lodged into his side had been a gift. During the patrol in which it occurred, Tim’s mind was heavy. Every mile crossed in the humvee, he knew his superiors were closer to logging the paperwork, using convoluted language to try and keep the truth of his dismissal off the record, even though word would eventually get around. His injury--the worst out of his patrol, _the real miracle_ \--was just bad enough, and visible in a way his admission was not, that of all the reasons Tim had to go, it took top billing. 

At home in his bed in Kentucky, hand smoothing over a ragged terrain, Tim remembered the blast. He remembered feeling it literally tear him apart, all the while hoping that maybe his C.O. would file a death certificate faster than a DADT write-up. 

\- 

Tim awoke hours later in a dense mental fog. His eyelids felt heavy but in the mirror looked perfectly normal. All of him was loose and warm, and Tim imagined not feeling his presence through his clothes. It was a nice feeling.

He stepped outside of his bedroom and found Raylan and Ben in the living room, the television screen lighting their faces in flashes of blue and white.

“Hey,” Ben said, surprised. “I literally could not wake you.”

Tim gave a tiny, near-invisible shake of his head, suggesting his explanation wasn’t for all audiences. “Go for a walk?” he asked, his voice still thick with sleep. They didn’t bring Joe; he scratched at the door, wanting, and Raylan fed him an early dinner as a distraction. 

They were gone for hours. Raylan couldn’t imagine how far they walked. When they returned, Tim was red-faced, his lips chapped and pink. 

“I’m going to bed,” Tim said. It wasn’t an invitation. 

\- 

It was snowing again that Saturday morning; nothing compared to the earlier storm of ice and sleet that left central Kentucky in a crystalline cover, but beautiful and deafening all the same. Raylan found Ben at the kitchen table, flipping through an outdated phone book in search of a taxi service. There was still-hot coffee in the pot; Raylan helped himself to a cup.

“Don’t you got a flight to catch?”

Ben’s rucksack was on the floor at his feet, his coat draped over his chair. He sipped his coffee and turned another page. “Tim went for a run.” 

Raylan rested a hip against the kitchen counter, frowning and doubtful. “In the snow. With his arm in a sling." He sighed, thinking it was just as likely that Tim was sulking in his bedroom, reading a ghost story. 

Raylan glanced at his watch. He wasn’t due to meet Winona for another two hours. 

"I’ll drive you.”

\- 

Even if Raylan hadn’t overheard their discussion, he could have figured the situation given Ben’s unceremonious departure. 

“So what’s the deal,” Raylan asked as they pulled out of the neighborhood. “Tim don’t like the cold? You don’t like apple pie?”

Ben stared straight ahead and practiced the response he’d have for his parents and sister, who liked Tim very much and knew what he meant to Ben. “I love the guy, but Tim doesn’t want what I want. A husband, a family.”

Raylan wasn’t surprised. Ten years was a long time, meaning Tim and Ben were practically kids when they’d met, still disgustingly in their teens or early twenties, but Raylan got the feeling Tim hadn’t changed much, that the Army didn’t allow for much personal growth. It was probably unfair of him to think this--and had Tim been sat in the car, too, Raylan wouldn’t have even chanced it--but there was probably a reason for that. Diplomatically, Raylan offered, “Seems clear to me he wants you.”

“Yeah,” Ben smiled sadly. “It’s kind of amazing. That’s _all_ he wants.” It should have stopped there. Ben didn’t need to convince himself any further; he was already on his way to the airport, decisions made. He certainly had no reason for sharing his thoughts with Raylan, but there was some pleasure taken from saying something and not having it hurt a man, necessarily. Ben often found it difficult to talk _about_ Tim _with_ Tim without _hurting_ Tim. 

“He doesn’t seem the type, does he? But I’m right, and you’re not so far off--he needs another person to survive. The military did a number on him. I know it, too.” Ben didn’t have the words to explain the security afforded by another person that just as well turns to terror when he’s gone. Raylan didn’t need an explanation, anyway--he saw it everyday, in Tim. 

Ben continued speaking all the things he wanted to say to Tim, but couldn’t. “He thinks he’s bored with himself but it’s really that he doesn’t like to think about who he is and his choices, because how appealing is that? To think about all the things you’ve done wrong?”

“I don’t recommend it,” Raylan agreed lightly.

“I get that he needs another person to,” Ben struggled with an explanation, “Smile at. Do things for. Occupy himself with. Whatever.” He grew frustrated, now, because the sentiment seemed so bare and plain and _what about it did Tim not understand?_ Those were all good things, but made all the better when not kept stagnant. Tim was lucky if stagnation was what he maintained; he was far more prone to regression. “He doesn’t like himself very much.” 

Raylan had forgotten how long a drive it was to the airport. 

“You know he had a shitty father.” Immediately, Raylan thought he’d outed himself, making that leap from self-contempt to an abusive father. 

“I know,” Ben agreed quietly, seeing a flash in Raylan what he saw in Tim. “I have a great one. Tim doesn’t want to learn it any other way.” 

“I don’t think you get me,” Raylan pressed, uneasy and slow. “Tim had a really shitty father.” 

When Tim had spared a detail ( _“My father shot himself in the head.”_ ) or masked one in a joke ( _“He wasn’t very articulate when he was beating on me.”_ ), Raylan sensed anger and resentment. It was familiar to him; it was how he felt about Arlo, even as a grown man. But Tim’s actions told a different story. A young man who would join the Army at his first chance--and not because he wanted to, but because it was his only sure way out--was _terrified_ of his father. Raylan didn’t know that fear. He could only guess where it came from.

Ben didn’t respond to Raylan, then. Maybe he didn’t have to guess. 

Raylan continued, “Can’t you meet him halfway?” 

“Get a dog,” Ben mused. “Like you two have?” 

Raylan made an unamused face. “Clearly, my intentions with our young Tim are purely wholesome in nature.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re a good friend.”

Raylan didn’t know about _that._

“Listen, I wouldn’t give a shit otherwise but I gotta live with the guy.” Perhaps playing his hand a little too forcefully, Raylan reined himself in. “And he’s a good guy, had a rough couple of months. Cut him some slack, huh?”

Arms folded loose across his chest, Ben asked, “What do you propose I do?”

Raylan, at a loss, pawned off his own question on Ben: “Didn’t you talk about this yesterday?”

“We went for a walk. Tim didn’t say one word to me.” 

It had been more difficult, more haunting than Ben could explain. Tim, raising his head and parting his lips like he meant to speak, usher forth some behemoth of a speech that would cement Ben in his place by Tim’s side, solve all their problems, and secure their future together. And then, nothing. Tim would look momentarily crushed under the weight of the fact that he had nothing to offer worthy of making Ben stay--except begging and admitting that was what he desperately wanted. 

But Tim didn’t much value what he wanted, anymore. A gun to use on his father, a makeshift family, a purpose. He’d found each in quick succession in the military. It had been awful and terrifying and painful and perfect. 

Then Tim wanted something else, and lost all that he’d gained. 

Although he never quite put his position into words, Ben understood it: wanting and needing Ben, genuine as those feelings were, could not carry Tim again into jeopardizing his job and livelihood. Tim didn’t wholly trust Ben not to stiff him, like he’d experienced in the past.

There was nothing left but to accept that.

“I think it’s good I came down here. Give him a proper goodbye,” Ben glanced at Raylan, thinking he’d understand. “I want to start a family.” 

Raylan didn’t see fit to mention the mistaken means by which _his_ little family came about. 

Ben continued, “I did try. All the domestic shit--grocery shopping, walks with the dog, talking about kids-- _your kid._ I thought he’d kind of… glom on to it. You know, if it was right there in front of him.”

“Christ. You sound like my ex-wife.” 

“Well,” Ben shook his head and smiled at that, feeling ridiculous. “That about says it all.” His smile faded. “This sucks.” 

As Raylan took the highway exit for the airport, he figured he might as well make his good deed count for something. “One practical matter I would be remiss not to pick your brain on. Tim tell you about his… episodes?”

“The PTSD? That’s normal.”

“What he’s doing is not normal.” 

Ben shrugged, unconcerned. “Don’t give him shit about it. He’s doing so much better than before.” Feeling interested eyes on him, Ben added coolly, “It isn’t my place to say.” 

“Looks like I’m nearer that place than you’re about to be,” Raylan mused. Playing acquaintances like he did fugitives was something Winona always hated, but Raylan didn’t see a great, gaping difference between questioning a friend and interrogating a potential lead. Usually--like now--they turned up something worthwhile.

“He’s never tried to kill himself,” Ben prefaced. “But that’s hard to say, seeing as he drives around with a loaded weapon all the time, anyway.” Raylan again heard Winona in his ear, and her opposition to his line of work. What Ben said next certainly didn’t sound like Winona, however. It was quiet, not the least bit concerned. Only thoughtful and true. 

“He’s practical. That’s the way he would go.”

“The hell, man,” Raylan grimaced. “You say something like that and expect me to drop you off with a smile and a friendly wave at the Delta terminal?”

“American Airlines,” Ben corrected. “Listen, I don’t mean to sound glib. Do you know many veterans?”

“A few,” Raylan allowed, recognizing that most were dead or in prison--or Boyd Crowder. Tim was doing _really_ well, considering. 

“How how are they? Like Tim?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Elaborating, Raylan said: “Mostly they’re just assholes. Nothing the military did but make ‘em assholes with weapons training and passports.”

Ben smirked at that. “We don’t all suffer from this. PTSD. Or some do, but maybe it’s not chronic. Maybe it’s delayed. Tim’s… there’s no single incident he’s working with, as far as I can tell.” Tim’s problem was an amalgamation of things--numerous deployments; his work as a sniper; the deaths of his friends, overseas _and_ at home. “His injury--you’ve seen it?” Raylan nodded in confirmation. “It wasn’t neat. His unit sort of… tumble dryed in their vehicles.”

“Head injury,” Raylan guessed. It certainly wasn’t something Tim had ever mentioned, even couched in a joke. 

Ben nodded, glad he didn’t have to explicitly share a detail Tim had not. 

“Complicates things, some. But Tim’s got a handle on it.” Ben was confident with his appraisal. In case Raylan didn’t share in that confidence, he added, “He does.” Glancing out the window at the state he might never visit again, Ben begrudgingly admitted: “He could be better. I wish he’d try a combination of therapy and medication.”

“Medication for what?”

Ben could make allowances for others not noticing how much Tim’s behavior had changed in ten years. And certainly, his hypervigilance was born of a quiet personality, first, before any of the military training. 

But there was an edge to Tim, if anyone chanced a long enough look at him, that was as apparent as it was disconcerting. Ben did his best to put what he saw in Tim into words: “Imagine always being on guard, not only in protection of your own life, but for the lives of your friends. _All_ of your friends. It’s exhausting, it’s stressful. And it doesn’t stop. Even in your sleep, you dream about those same situations. Real or not, they all end badly.” Feeling as though he was embarrassing Tim, Ben shrugged, tried to smile like Tim might have done to let the air out of such statements. “He doesn’t like to complain.” 

Raylan wasn’t a layman; he’d shot enough men and gone to almost half of those mandatory post-shooting, office-ordered psychiatry sessions to know some of what Tim was going through--at least, the terminology. Ben was touching on re-experience and excessive retrieval via nightmares; Raylan understood the former very well, but never the latter. He slept very soundly over everything he’d done. _Presided over it,_ even. 

Part of that came from Raylan’s confidence in himself--a man didn’t develop a swagger like he had without cause. 

And the hat spoke for itself. 

Like Raylan, Tim had confidence in his skillset. Unlike Raylan, the Marshal was coming to understand as he pulled up to the crowded airport terminal, Tim had little else. 

\- 

Raylan didn’t return to Tim’s house; instead, he received a call from Winona that took him to a pleasant neighborhood, part of a new housing development. It wasn’t the ten minute straight shot to and from work that Tim’s place allotted for; instead, it was all winding roads hooded with trees, tucked away in a quiet spread of Lexington, backed against stables and empty acres of land. It reminded Raylan a little of the drive to Harlan, except with more family-sized minivans and theme mailboxes (unless that theme was _powerful narcotics dead drop,_ which it wasn’t. By a 2-to-1 margin, the theme here was _smiling bees._ )

He joined Winona at an open house, toured the place and pretended to inspect for sound foundations, when in reality he merely wandered, sleeping daughter in his arms. Perpetually pink-cheeked, she was swaddled in enough onesies and sweaters to render her immobile--a good thing, too, as Raylan was tasked to hold her.

Winona’s loose curls seemed to share in her exuberance, bouncing as she took yet another look at the high ceilings and fine fixture work.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s big.” With three bedrooms--and what was _that_ about--a massive open ground floor, and enough bathrooms to satisfy quartered soldiers should the south rise again, it dwarfed Tim’s space. Raylan was mildly disappointed over the lack of a deck; he’d come to enjoy Tim’s, and although Winona’s pick had a rustic wrap-around porch, Raylan preferred the privacy afforded by the alternative. 

It wasn’t quite the answer Winona was looking for.

“She likes it,” Raylan offered, adjusting Janette in his arms. 

“She’s asleep,” Winona returned flatly, unimpressed with Raylan’s efforts to gracefully lose this argument through an infant. 

“Home is where you lay your head,” Raylan defended, then acquiesced: “Yes, Winona. I like it. I like you in it. My head is just elsewhere at the moment.”

She nodded, understanding. “How’s Tim?”

Raylan had made an announcement on Tim’s behalf at the start of the week, informing the office he was fine, and _fuck you all, enjoy covering my prisoner transport assignments. Direct quote._ He hadn’t mentioned Tim’s visitor to his ex-wife, believing Winona would want to meet him, and _knowing_ that Tim wouldn’t like that. 

“He’s having some troubles,” Raylan answered honestly, blandly. 

She nodded again, but Winona’s head was elsewhere, too. “We’re getting this house.”

“Are we, now?” Raylan couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice--that _tall ceilings and gingham decoupage master bathroom_ was going to be their home, or the _we_ with which Winona prefaced her announcement.

Winona shelved her hands on her hips, confident. “I know you, Raylan. I know this may not work out the way we want it to--or we may not want it to work out. I like this house. I can see raising my daughter here. And you can be a part of that, too. I hope that you are. The third room is… in case it works that way.” 

It felt like failure, then relief--which reemphasized the failure. 

“Winona, I--” _can do this. Can’t do this._

“Trust me,” Winona said warmly, cozying up to Raylan and sweeping the long wisps of brown hair from their daughter’s face. She kissed her daughter first, and then her ex-husband. “This is right.”

\- 

Raylan spent Saturday night and Sunday at the house Winona was watching for a friend; they made use of the inordinately large shower and, at Raylan’s cajoling, the bed. 

Raylan returned to Tim’s late Sunday night. 

(“I didn’t drive him all the way there,” Raylan said, taking the joke out of Tim’s mouth. “Spent the night with Winona.” 

Tim spared him a flat look before leaving the kitchen for his bedroom. “Tell it to your diary, Jane Austen.”)

Monday morning, when Tim was slated to return to work, Raylan awoke feeling a draft in the house. His first thought was that Tim was not in his room. The sinking notion got his heart racing and carried him out of bed and into the living space, only to see that Tim was out on the deck, dressed, drinking coffee, and staring at the frost-laced trees. 

Raylan scrubbed a hand over his face and fixed himself a cup of coffee. Still in his boxers and undershirt, he didn’t bother joining Tim outside. He called from the relative safety and warmth of the house, “Thinking about Canada?”

“Fuck off.” 

Raylan sipped his coffee. Tim was sore from the presumed breakup, that was obvious. Hoping he’d taken the past two days to mope about it, Raylan had to wonder where Tim was along the spectrum of _getting right back up on that horse,_ so to speak. He goaded lamely, “Those shitty little ultimatums never work. S’just an excuse to do what you want.” 

“Ultimatum,” Tim echoed. “Ben tell you that? Wish he’d have clued me in a fuckin’ week ago.”

Raylan’s easy gait took him closer to the open glass doors and Tim’s snowy deck. “You would have made a better showing?” he guessed. He knew that game all too well. Had just _won it,_ in fact.

“Well it obviously couldn’t have been worse.” Tim turned then, to see that his correction was noted: “Ignore how that sounds.” 

Raylan thought his face looked a little red, little puffy. Just the cold and the alcohol, and the inability to sweat it out over the past week. The view of Tim from behind showed his sling awkwardly bunching and wrinkling his dress shirt--the first shirt in a week Tim was wearing that wasn’t old, torn, and short-sleeved. Tim would undoubtedly be scratching at his bandages all day.

“Tim, this ain’t the worst thing to happen to you, surely.” Meaning to inject some humor into the situation, Raylan teased, “You’re acting like he killed your cat.”

“Shut up,” Tim mumbled--which was odd in two ways: First, that Tim wouldn’t say loudly and clearly what he meant, and second, that it would be something so uninventive as _shut up._

“Ouch, five-year-old me thinks that’s mighty rude of you,” Raylan goaded.

“Shut the fuck up.” A little better. 

Tim assessed Raylan’s straight-out-of-bed-bachelor form and decided to hit a little harder. “Why are you even here, man? Winona’s here, your child is here. You can’t fuckin’ close the deal on that?” 

Raylan shrugged, unoffended because he knew he stood much closer to all that, now. _Soon enough, but--_ “Not yet.”

Dry as the desert, Tim returned: “So back to my main point: _shut the fuck up._ ”

“Hey, Walter Sobchak, we’re in the same boat here.” (3)

“Oh, shit, you’re pregnant?”

Tim had turned away again, only ever wanting to spend his morning in quiet and calm. Neither were possible in the company of Raylan Givens, who could never let a matter rest. 

“Winona and the baby are here. We’re looking at houses. I will provide for my child even if I don’t get to know her right away. That is Winona’s ultimatum. I can live with it.” 

Tim drank the rest of his rapidly-cooling coffee, and issued an equally tepid reply. “So what you’re saying is, you have everything and I have nothing, _but buck up, sport._ ”

“Oh." Raylan thought a moment. "Well, shit. I thought I had a better point mapped out there. Never mind. Good coffee.” 

“You are a gift, Raylan. Truly.” 

Tim stepped back inside, at which point Raylan noticed he was wearing a pair of slippers that looked like he’d found them in the basement and had once belonged to the house’s 75-year-old original owner. He kicked them off, sat on the couch, and proceeded to put on his boots.

While hunched over and maneuvering his shoelaces, Tim grew verbally frustrated with himself, muttered _Christ’s almighty cock_ and lifted his leg a little higher, a little closer to his chest so that he wasn’t stretching his injured arm so far. He accomplished his task without any help.

There was a moment, then, in which Tim looked as though something precious had been ripped out of his arms, as if he’d lost his hideous cat all over again. Raylan felt--pity, first of all. It evolved into sympathy after he couldn’t immediately shake it. Tim’s cheeks went red like he was screaming, but his lips stayed in a tight, thin line. The angry crease fixed itself into his forehead and his sunken eyes seemed to disappear deeper into the shadow afforded by his brow as he ducked his head, pretending to inspect his shoes. He sucked in a breath. When he next lifted his head, Tim’s face was a smooth mask of dispassion. 

Raylan remembered the last time Winona left him; he was a wreck, but self-aware enough to ask Art for time off to get his head straight. That wasn’t a route Tim was willing to go, as it would entail explaining himself. _All_ of himself. 

“You’ve been rough with that arm,” Raylan said, trying not to look at Tim even as he spoke. “Take the day, I’ll give Art the heads up.” 

It took him a while, but eventually Tim committed to shaking his head. "Nope," he said definitively. "Hell. I called it." 

But then Tim left the couch in favor of his bedroom--to retrieve a coat, Raylan figured, except he didn't see him again that morning, leaving for work. Raylan didn't see Tim all day.

It was something of a relief, then, for Raylan to return home just after six and find Tim on the couch, a drink in his good hand and sitting through an obnoxious commercial because he wouldn't put the bourbon down even to channel surf. He hadn’t changed out of his work clothes or shoes, either. 

“Brought you a burger,” Raylan said, holding up a greasy-bottomed bag from an out-of-the-way place he liked. He joined Tim on the couch and unearthed a spread of burgers and fries, then settled in for whatever Tim was watching--the latest _Spiderman_ reboot. 

In the midst of enjoying his meal, Raylan noticed Tim wasn’t eating. “I don’t got to help, do I?”

“I’d rather starve,” Tim said, picking up the burger for himself and taking a massive bite. 

Raylan felt he’d missed his window of getting Tim to open up after his ordeal--both his fit and the shooting. Ben swooped in and Tim took refuge where it was generously offered, where he _wanted it._ Raylan was shuffled off to the periphery. In just one week of being around Tim but hardly interacting with him at all, Raylan had lost track. Where was he, now?

Tim had loved Ben. That much was grossly obvious. Everything between their meetings--all the dirty ruts and anonymous blow jobs and bored sex--was just filler. Tim was keeping busy, waiting. He didn’t learn other mens’ names, didn’t care about them or allow himself to want them any more than what was necessary. Raylan knew that strategy--it never held up much of an endgame for him, either. 

Tim would never say it outright, but Raylan read it on his face every time Ben spoke or laughed or shared some wild story. There was so _much_ of Ben, and so much he was willing to share. Tim, like an empty vessel, wanted to fill himself up with that: laughter and stories and bad jokes and a history and family and values and the confidence it took not only to want all of that, but to have and keep and grow it. 

Tim wanted a better identity; not necessarily Ben’s, but something just as rich and varied. In figuring this, Raylan supposed what Ben had said made sense: Tim didn’t like himself very much. 

He had a house while Raylan was bouncing around hotels, a career by an age Raylan knew only for himself as his amorphous _college years,_ and a lengthy list of problems Raylan found comparable to his own. Looking at his younger partner, who had taken up the bourbon again in lieu of his half-eaten burger, Raylan wondered if and when anything between them had ever made sense. 

\- 

The next morning, Tim was dressed for work before Raylan had stirred from sleep, but was still-- _again_ \--struggling with his shoes while Raylan sipped a coffee. 

It was a hero’s welcome at the office, complete with applause, genuine--if misplaced--appreciation, playful attempts at knocking his injured arm, and--worst of all--assurances (“I heard he had multiple magazines on him. You stopped something really bad, Gutterson.”). 

Tim left it all just after lunch, for a blow job.

Daniel was a willing and eager participant, joining Tim in the third floor bathrooms after Tim breezed by his office not once, but twice. Like he was stalking his prey. 

It was a transparent move, but Tim didn’t think past its necessity. His brain was still back at his desk, logging smiles and thumbs up and promises to buy him a beer. 

The bathroom was clean, scrubbed and polished and smelling of vanilla. Tim waited out only one occupant before Daniel arrived, sliding through the door like he’d done it a million times before, entered every room by dislocating his vertebrae and slithering through, neat and efficient. 

“Glad you’re okay,” Daniel said, a formality while securing the door behind him. Unlike before, he also greeted Tim with a kiss against the side of his mouth to be construed as either something innocent or merely poor aim. His hands were on Tim’s hips after that, all business. “I didn’t want that to be our last blowjob.” 

Tim wriggled against the marble counter of sinks and soap dispensers, wanting a position that didn’t land his ass in the sink bowl like a toddler’s training potty. He appreciated Daniel’s quick work unbuttoning his trousers and hooking two thumbs into the band of his underwear; Tim did not want enough time to need getting comfortable. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Daniel sported a grin that could have made the cashmere in his sweater pill. “I can do better.” 

Daniel did not hesitate in taking Tim’s cock and balls in his hands, teasing the latter and readying the former for his mouth. He took in just the tip first, wetting and tasting it. Tim gripped the edge of the counter with his good hand, for balance. Daniel noticed this and adjusted himself so that he was able to hook an arm around Tim, bracing him. His hand was open and sure at the small of Tim’s back. 

Tim jerked his hips, demanding more than mere teasing. Daniel complied, taking Tim entirely in his mouth. Awash with relief and the only kind of adulation Tim found acceptable, Tim found himself swallowing down a load moan. Daniel hadn't been lying about doing better.

Tim’s head bounced once, twice, three times against the bathroom mirror as Daniel sucked and swallowed him. He curled forward, feeling himself about to come. It felt so near and so necessary--after the nightmare, after the shooting, after everything slow and nice with Ben, and everything cold and dark without him. 

He opened his eyes and saw--Deputy Mackie. Mouth agape, his short, thick frame and gray suit filling the doorway.

“I thought--I heard knocking.” Mackie took a step back and closed the door, fast, like he feared some residual spray might coat the room. 

“You didn’t lock the door?” Tim observed, hearing his voice as deceptively calm over his racing heart. He shoved Daniel away and began stuffing himself back into his underwear and pants. 

“I did!” Daniel insisted. His wide eyes and confused, barely-there smile suggested he found the situation more humorous than career-ending. 

_“Then it doesn’t lock from inside, dipshit.”_

“Will you calm down?” Daniel snapped. There was no need for name-calling.

 _“I work with that guy.”_ Tim churned out the words with the same gravity as someone might when saying, _There's a bomb in the baby stroller,_ or _The season finale of Breaking Bad is tonight._

“He isn’t assembling an angry mob,” Daniel threw back, having put a few things together. Tim wasn’t merely _not out_ as his preference for keeping things away from work suggested--he was closeted, or presented himself as straight. However one did that, Daniel didn’t know. He’d learned that being successful, white, and male meant no one would ever question you. He supposed Tim hadn’t learned that lesson, or didn’t subscribe to it; a man didn’t lose his boner that quickly unless he was terrified. 

“You walk out there right now, let me tell you--you look like you’ve just had your dick expertly sucked.” Daniel washed his hands and face. “Or a difficult piss. Kidney stones. My dad had those.”

Tim was wrestling with his belt buckle, trying to remember the technique he’d used getting it on that morning. Chin to his chest, he griped, “So anyone asks, you just say you were treating me for kidney stones. Because your _apparent fucking insanity_ can only help at the moment.”

Daniel dried his hands and then sorted Tim’s belt. 

“Calm down. You’re a goddamn American hero.”

“Oh, stop. You’re getting me hard.” Tim had returned to a dry, even-keeled delivery as he came to accept his new set of circumstances.

Literally getting caught with one’s pants down was not unheard of in the courthouse building; usually it was the uncomfortably beautiful lawyers practicing sexy law in their glass offices. Tim could count himself among the few who’d heard something doing down in a stockroom, which he always thought was kind of unoriginal and trite. Paperclips and ink toner didn’t really do it for him, but Tim could appreciate dedication to the craft. 

Knowing how easy it was to get caught made his own situation all the more mortifying. And in a _public restroom,_ no less.

He wasn't returned to his desk longer than half an hour before he was sure of it: word got around. He felt eyes on him, heard the drop in peoples’ voices as they made loose attempts at being sneaky with their color commentary. For half the day, he pretended he was imagining it. The second time he stood to use the restroom, then stopped himself, however, was when Tim realized he wouldn’t pull the numbers he had, previously. He couldn't play dumb indefinitely and wondered how he did it so long in the Army. 

The greater necessity, maybe. The fear of getting fragged just off base, rather than merely reassigned or fired. The latter notion jumped to the forefront of his concerns as Art approached in the late afternoon, looking like he wanted to laugh or make a joke, but couldn't quite generate a smile. He looked confused.

Tim didn’t say a thing or move a muscle--in a way, cementing all suspicions. 

But Art was faster on his feet than he was given credit for. He passed by Tim’s desk easily, saying only that if he could join Rachel on a prisoner transport, _that’d be swell._

Tim, mindful of his audience, kept Rachel waiting a few extra minutes before collecting his coat and leaving the office at an easy, unencumbered pace.

Rachel, knowing that the matter wouldn’t be up for discussion once they had a prisoner in the backseat, hit Tim with questions as soon as their car doors were closed.

_“What were you thinking?”_

“Doesn’t matter,” Tim dismissed shortly. Rachel let him drive, giving him something to occupy his mind with. “What are people sayin’?” 

Tim had never explicitly come out to Rachel. He'd simply let the correct pronoun slip when he hadn't meant to, and only later realized his mistake. Still very much The New Guy, Rachel let him stew for a day or two before affirming coolly that their situations were similar, and she wouldn't fault him for hiding to get ahead. 

Not wanting to admit that he had never thought that far ahead, Tim had kept quiet and let Rachel explained herself: "I once overheard myself described by one of our esteemed colleagues as 'a very skilled investigator... but a very _pronounced_ black woman.'"

"Shit," Tim had said, less in solace for Rachel’s feelings than for the poor bastard with a mouth as big as a barn door. "You kick his ass?"

Rachel had smiled at that. "I got wind of the case he was working on, and I closed it. And the next one. I love my job, but shutting down assholes isn't just what we do to fugitives."

She'd been able to reassure him, then, but wasn't so certain she could win that game twice.

“I don’t know if this hurts or helps, but no one’s talking about the blowjob. They’re mostly just… surprised.” 

“If they’ve got to know I’m gay I want them to at least keep in mind that I’m gettin’ some.” Tim said it too smooth, too easy. Like he was practicing lines. 

Rachel wasn't fooled. “You okay?” she asked, very pointedly not looking at Tim's arm. It wasn't the problem, here. “You’ve never done something like this before.”

"They're saying I'm bad at it, too?"

“Getting caught,” Rachel corrected blandly; Tim could always fall into it, but she wasn’t in a joking mood. “You think I can’t tell when a man is satisfied? How else would I have known to divorce Joe?” She sighed. “Tim.”

“I just--I fucked up.”

Tim went from looking angry to sorry to neutral so quickly that Rachel hardly had time to register the comment. She almost didn’t want to pry any further, if only to allow Tim some peace away from the office. Certain his unreadable expression masked a great deal more than Tim was letting on, Rachel took a different approach. 

“There have been rumors about me, too.” 

“I’ve heard a few,” Tim admitted--reasons for Rachel’s speedy divorce which seemed to have involved another man… and quite a few women. Not all of them Joe's, even. “Profound narrative structure, you should be proud.”

“Just laugh them off.” 

“That what you did?”

“ _Hell no._ I found who was talking shit and shined my shoes with their tears.” 

Tim smiled at that. “Because your rumors weren’t true.”

“Yeah,” Rachel said, seeing the flaw in her plan. 

“That guy I told you about,” Tim mumbled, “A.B.? Came down for a week after the VA thing.”

“Raylan may have mentioned something,” she said. There was a lightness to her voice that suggested whatever Raylan had made mention of, it hadn't been recent. Maybe he'd returned one of her ignored calls to Tim and heard only Raylan's assessment of the situation: _He's fine. He's got a nice boy on his couch, helping him tie his shoes. You really want me to take him away from all that?_

Tim was all the more embarrassed, then, to explain that he'd ruined all that in the course of a single week. 

“He left. Um, me.”

Tim focused on the road, calculating the traffic for the given hour and taking an alternate route. 

Rachel looked at Tim fondly--she’d always liked him. Quiet, dutiful, didn’t drag his shit into the office. Rachel could appreciate that where, in some instances, she’d failed. If she found on a long drive that she couldn’t contain some frustrating thing between her mother and nephew and ended up spilling the details to Tim, she knew she would never hear a whisper of it from anyone else. It was a small office and personal failure was prime watercooler discussion, yet Rachel could count Tim as a dependable friend as well as a fellow Marshal. The former was in short supply. 

She sighed, sorry that there seemed to be so much going wrong in Tim’s life, and that her putting Raylan on the sidelines to it seemingly made no difference. At least in that respect, perhaps Raylan’s radio silence suggested he was dependable friend material, too. “This really hasn’t been your year.” 

Tim honked at the car in front of them, stalled at a green light. “You ain’t kidding.” 

Rachel did her part in flipping off the driver as Tim passed him. Not a smart move if the guy recognized their vehicle plates for federal law enforcement, but she was willing to chance it, for Tim. “Well, coffee’s on me.” 

Tim smiled again; just a twitch of something uncertain, but Rachel was immeasurably pleased to see it. 

“Sad how much it helps, huh?” Rachel watched Lexington grow distant in their rearview mirrors, and the county start to creep in from dead ahead. Snow only clung in patches to the sides of the road, but it littered fields and coated trees and the odd distant farmhouse. The countryside was pristine in a way Rachel wasn’t prone to thinking of Kentucky. Save for their conversation--and, indeed, their destination--it was a very pleasant drive. 

Her spirits somewhat lifted, Rachel smiled and asked of Tim, “Remember what you did when I left Joe?” 

“No,” Tim answered honestly. “Because you didn’t see fit to mention it until a week after the fact.” He smirked, lobbed his head to pull a face at her, and said, “Avoidance. It’s what keeps our friendship afloat.”

Rachel rolled her eyes and answered for him, “You, me, and Raylan went for drinks. He left to go fuck...whoever it was he was fucking at the time.”

“Lindsey,” Tim recalled helpfully. “Maybe also Winona. There was some overlap going on, somewhere.” 

Ignoring him, she went on: “You had maybe one beer--one _light_ beer--the whole night. I practically drank from a trough. Then I _really_ wanted to go bowling, and _you took me bowling._ Then you bought me a burger and took me home.” She laughed at herself a little, there, for being so pleased at what sounded like such an unremarkable evening. “It was fun.”

“Yeah, well. To the victor go the spoils.” 

“You know this will all blow over,” Rachel said, feeling Tim was finally ready to accept some tried and true wisdom. 

He nodded for her benefit. _She_ didn’t have to face Art. 

“Raylan will do something stupid and I’ll be last week’s bathroom blowjob news,” Tim agreed dully.

Rachel patted his knee. “We live in hope.”

\- 

Tim returned to the office somehow in a _worse_ mood than when he’d left, because a number of guards and prison administration recognized him from the news. Some wanted _pictures_ with him and, because the universe seemed primed to open its gaping asshole further and deposit seemingly endless streams of hot, runny shit over his day, one of the guards even wanted to _interview him._ For his _blog._

Sufficient to say, Rachel did not let Tim do the driving on the return leg. For all the red he was seeing, Rachel worried they could be stopped at a green light for ages. 

After they completed the transport, Rachel pretended she was starving, so they added a late lunch. Tim didn’t return to the office until well after he was off the clock, but found cause to stay until early evening. 

It was slow work, typing up the transfer report with one hand, but it was really all Tim felt qualified to do at the moment. That, and wait out enough stragglers to have a clear shot at Art’s office to… apologize? Await some form of modern day torture like digitizing the filing? Hear a sermon? Or, as Tim believed was most likely, receive a disciplinary write-up along with some not-so-subtle transfer options. 

“Tim.” Art was standing at the door to his office. “You wait any longer, I won’t be seeing you until morning. Get in here.”

Jarred from his thoughts, Tim stood numbly and joined Art in his office, closing the door behind him. 

“I’m hoping there’s a punishment,” Tim said, situating himself before Art’s desk, standing until Art gestured for him to take a seat. Art did not immediately move to produce two glasses of bourbon, which Tim interpreted as a _terrible fucking development._

“Is that what you’re into?” Art asked, eyebrows comically drawn together.

Tim hooked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the piles of paperwork on his desk. “Well if I’ve been fired, I wasted three hours purging old case files.” He got out his response before his stomach dropped to the floor at the thought of hearing nothing but shitty jokes for the rest of his time in Lexington--from Art, no less. 

“Your friend enjoy his stay?” Art tried to begin things light, conversational. Tim didn't know that route; he only knew what was surely coming for him. 

“He ain’t just my friend.” Tim’s mistaken tense was on purpose; he was already admitting he was gay, there was no sense in telling Art that he was bad at it.

“So you are…” Art trailed off purposefully, as though he hoped Tim would interrupt him with some new truth. 

Tim waited a beat, wanting to hear from Art the tone and language he’d now associate solely with his youngest Marshal. _‘Fag,’_ and Tim would be done for. _‘Gay’_ was the desired outcome, _‘a gay,’_ less so. Even _‘a homosexual’_ was in the running. 

Tim wet his lips. “‘Fraid so.” 

“All right, then. Right. Well. Good. Good to know.” Art squinted at Tim, again going for laughs. “Really?”

“Tried and true,” Tim drawled, fighting back against Art’s jokes with a flat temperament.

“That’s something of a surprise, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Tim shrugged, and couldn’t stop himself from joking: “S’less surprising if you think about dick all day long. It’s a wonder I get any work done.” 

Art cracked a smile while Tim seemed to retreat, mentally kicking himself for behaving with Art like he normally would. He squared his shoulders and conferred with himself: _no more fuck-ups._

“Raylan knew,” Art puzzled.

“Yes, sir.”

“And Rachel.”

“Sir.” 

The last time, Tim hadn’t named names. 

Art folded his hands under his chin, thoughtful. “Well gee, Tim. I’m feeling kind of left out.” 

Like Rachel, Art liked Tim, liked that he quietly, diligently played by the rules--unless Raylan was involved, Art was coming to learn. Tim would push Raylan’s buttons, then tag along for the downward spiral because it was fun. But it wasn’t Raylan blowing Tim in that third floor bathroom, so Art really didn’t know what to make of the ordeal. 

Sitting with his back straighter than the chair seemed to allow, it seemed Tim didn’t know that, himself. “I like my job,” he said.

It wasn’t the explanation Art was expecting--it was shorter, for one. More definite. It reflected poorly on both employer and employee, that the latter looked shaken and the former, clueless.

“How’s the arm?”

Tim about got whiplash from the directional epilepsy of the conversation. He rushed through an answer: “Fine. Good, actually. No nerve damage. I start exercising it soon, can prob’bly be on a range in a few more weeks.”

It was what Tim had tried, previously--making an argument, making himself indispensable to the organization despite other… undesirable qualities.

Art seemed to see through the effort, but moved on all the same. “You going to be okay with handling firearms again, so soon?”

Tim answered immediately: “Always.”

Perhaps a little heavy handed, sure, but Tim didn’t believe the statement to be untrue. 

Art settled into his chair and studied Tim for a moment. “You know you can't do,” he made a face like he’d tasted spoiled cottage cheese, “ _that_ at work. Pretty sure that rule exists across the board.” 

As Tim issued a grave series of nods, Art burst into laughter.

“Chief?”

“Well now we got that settled, it’s just fucking _funny._ ” 

Art meant well, and Tim knew he should have considered himself lucky. Still--he left the office angry and anxious and very much in need of a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (3) "Shut the fuck up, Donny." - _The Big Lebowski,_ because we know Raylan is a fan.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim wants to see a movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the end! I hope it's adequate. A whole lot of... nothing... happens. Some of which I am REALLY VERY UNCERTAIN ABOUT, YOU WILL KNOW IT WHEN YOU SEE IT, but I think my main point IN THAT BIT is that Tim is not in a very good place and, in a drunken stupor, who knows what you or I might put our mouths on? Terrible, terrible things.
> 
> Also, NO RACHEL IN THIS CHAPTER. I'M WORSE THAN THE SHOW (lol in every way. Forgive me, actual talented people, for my gross misuse of your creation). 
> 
> On a lighter note, so many thanks to everyone who has stuck with this monstrosity! Sorry for making you read so much drivel. _Never again._ (For real this time!)

A month carried a lot of changes for Tim, some visible--he was out of his sling--and some less pronounced. He was drinking more. Were he not still sharing his house with Raylan, that fact might have gone completely unnoticed. But Jesus God, the smell. Not of alcohol, but of mints and extra-strength deodorant, like the taste and smell was burned into Tim's senses and every breath was laced with the stuff. 

He was quieter, and alternatively a little harsher when dealing with the odd comment from his co-workers, some of whom were so starved for office gossip that Tim's tryst remained newsworthy well after its initial shock value had faded. Raylan, who was sat next to Tim and therefore audience to the comments made over Tim's desk, heard the lot. 

“Is it true?”  
 _“That I just finished logging half the paperwork outta this office from the past week? You bet your ass it is.”_

“Are you seeing anybody?”  
 _“Juan Carlo. Cartel thug, and only I can change him.”_

“Wouldn’t have guessed it.”  
 _“Kind of like how I wouldn’t figure you for much of an investigator.”_

“Any more recreational visits to the restroom?”  
 _“Not unless you’re offering.”_

Most were made without Tim so much as looking up from his work--except that last one, often repeated and always delivered with a ready stare and curling smile.

Art had a comment for Tim, too--made loudly enough that it served as a quasi-announcement for the office. “Enough traffic outside my door, you’d think I’d put in a freeway.” It was as much of a warning as Art was willing to issue on the matter without drawing more attention to it. (Tim could imagine the alternative if it had been a pretty secretary going down on him--hooting congratulations, Art suggesting a parade route rather than tempering the excitement.)

It looked well enough like Tim had the matter under control, that the constant ribbing wasn't wearing so heavily on him that he couldn't take his hits and roll with them. Except, here again was where Raylan knew otherwise. Like Raylan, the commentary followed Tim home. 

There, Tim returned to old habits--bad habits. Losing Ben was like severing a lifeline and he didn’t even think about grappling for something else; Tim just fell. Dropped into things like Daniel from Winona's office, thoughtless mistakes he wouldn't have risked, otherwise.

It was a slow descent into greater avoidance, hyper-vigilance, irritability, and increased nightmares. Tim didn’t take the deck steps two at a time to reach his lowest point, now; he found it in the shelves of his fridge, chilled to perfection. He drank and disappeared. Sometimes into his bedroom, often times just on the couch, sitting so small and still that Raylan often overlooked his presence. 

None of this behavior touched his work performance, and were Raylan to have voiced a concerned word, he’d be hard pressed to find anyone willing to entertain the notion that Tim was dealing with anything worse than bruised pride. Even Art seemed to have taken Tim at his unspoken word: All the extra assignments and diligent work was Tim’s way of proving he was a good soldier, the outfit needed him, _and maybe he could be excused this one infraction, sir?_

With Ben’s words still rattling around between his ears, however, Raylan saw a picture vastly different from the one Tim projected. He worked longer hours, leaving home early and returning late. He took on multiple assignments and made himself so busy and beholden to others that he was rarely forced to be alone with himself. He went to the firing range but found he didn’t need the extra practice; his perfect shots were all muscle memory, instinct. He went to the gym and pushed himself too far, always leaving in dizzying pain.

Raylan couldn’t put it into words--his vocabulary seemed limited to the amount of bullshit he absorbed from those more qualified to determine such things--but losing Ben had destroyed Tim’s self-esteem. Tim lived every day feeling like a failure, and worked diligently-- _relentlessly_ \--to prove himself wrong. His incessant efforts were futile, however; no amount of appreciation and adulation from others could surpass the profound feelings of self-loathing he harbored for himself. 

This was something Tim left at his front door before leaving, and picked up again at the end of his workday. Like smoking during his teens and then dropping it completely; if addiction management was a skill to be mastered, Tim was a savant. It was only in those brief shifts, the blink-and-you-miss-it transition of _Tim On The Job_ and _Tim After Hours_ , that his squared shoulders dropped to a listlessness that seemed to envelop his entire being. It was as slim as the difference between having a drink and being a drunk.

The only thing that carried over between each reality was Tim’s easy smirk. In some lights, it could be confused for a smile. But it was too sharp for that. Like the jokes he made, the little line was cut like a cheap fix with anxiety and fear. Tim was always anticipating the other shoe to drop, some bomb to fall, to slice him open and end whatever discussion was going on in his head that made him smirk and laugh and wait.

\- 

Raylan returned from Winona’s late. She’d not wanted him to leave, said he was practically living there anyway, Raylan said _not yet I’m not_ and queued up an entire messy argument about just why that was.

Raylan didn’t feel clear of Winona’s questions and accusations until he’d entered the house and dropped his badge and sidearm, holster and all, on the kitchen table with Tim’s. There were two empty beer bottles on the table, but Tim was sat on the couch. He’d had himself quite an evening; his face bore the faint red signs of an aggressive partner with stubble, his shirt was unbuttoned, and perhaps damningly of all, there was a used condom tucked in his front breast pocket. So, _not the most polite of new friends,_ but Tim at least seemed sated. Head propped against his fist, he snored softly.

Joe padded out of Tim’s room, yawned, found Raylan’s hand and distributed a friendly lick, then relocated to the center of the living room to continue his fitful sleep. 

Convinced that Tim wouldn’t mind--or indeed be cognizant of the change--Raylan plucked the remote from Tim’s lap and switched from Michael Keaton’s _Batman_ to a Miami Dolphins football game. Tim awoke some time during the fourth quarter, bleary-eyed and in search of Kim Basinger. His first order of business was to see that he poured himself a drink. 

Raylan hadn’t noticed the bottle at Tim’s feet, but by the smell of him, presumed Tim had already downed its entire contents. “Any left for me?” he asked. A dig, if Tim had his wits about him to notice.

It took the younger Marshal so long to answer that Raylan thought Tim hadn’t heard him. 

(When he did, Raylan would wish he hadn’t.)

“You want a taste?” Tim turned to face him, his eyes shining bright, hungry. Raylan huffed out a laugh, but Tim kept his attention. He was so quiet, so still. Raylan found himself drawn to that kind of control, the part of Tim that could exact mental focus no matter his physical condition. Raylan was drawn to him--or, parts of him. Wet, pink lips and open throat. The chest hair, Raylan didn’t linger on. For all the red flags going off, Raylan couldn’t differentiate wanting Tim and just… wanting. And he just sort of… wanted to. So he just sort of… did. 

Tim closed the space between them, kissing Raylan as easy and thoughtless as Raylan had wanted it. 

_Earlier,_ his brain shocked him into reason. _With Winona._

When they’d been arguing and the baby was crying and the house was so big and still so empty. 

They eased apart and Raylan felt Tim’s breath on his own lips, a kind of heat that took him back to the city-wide blackout. He felt enveloped in it, could taste its slick warmth on the backs of his teeth. It escaped Raylan’s mind completely that it had been months since that night, because he felt it all so clearly even in the darkest depths of winter. He felt an _invincible summer._

_Fuck. Who wrote that?_

Raylan pressed his mouth to Tim’s again, probing for an answer.

He pulled back just as quickly, foregoing his search for French anarchist Albert Camus. Raylan stared at Tim, who suddenly wasn’t in such a command of his faculties to stare back. Tim had a look on his face like he tasted something awful. 

Raylan took a sharp inhale of breath, a gulp of the cool, stale house air to cleanse him of this error. “Oh, we’re gonna laugh about this later.”

“You’re hard.” Tim said, and if Raylan wasn’t already, the drop in Tim’s voice--where it sounded like it was lodged in his throat, wet and raw and full of promise--got him to that tight, uncomfortable place. 

“Tim,” he said, meaning to issue some warning. 

“I’ll suck your dick.” 

A simple statement, so easily offered that it gave Raylan pause. Tim’s smile was sated, like he’d already gotten what he’d wanted from Raylan in the man’s delayed reaction. His eyes told a different story: usually sharp and keen for every detail of his surroundings, they followed Raylan just a little too slowly, now.

Raylan gave a curt, single shake of his head and stood, despite the discomfort. “Time to turn in. I’ma take a shower.”

“Rub one out for me,” Tim said--not playfully, exactly, though there was an upturn to his tone that suggested a departure from whatever slow, quiet place they’d occupied previously. 

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” Raylan snapped, angrier than he’d intended. 

Tim snarked back, “You’re the one tenting in his Levi 501s.” Then he just grinned like an idiot, immeasurably pleased that he’d driven Raylan away. 

Raylan didn’t shower. He washed his face and neck, and waited for his hard on to weaken, if only to deny Tim the satisfaction of otherwise dealing with it. He didn’t give much thought to what had trespassed, least of all his active part in it. He wondered if this was how Art felt sometimes, catching wind of Raylan’s righteous but borderline asinine behavior. 

During that time, he heard Tim in the kitchen, picking things up and putting them down again. Tim was always quiet, so it was something of a testament to the silence of the house that Raylan could hear him at all.

The doorbell buzzed, followed in quick succession by a series of knocks. Joe started barking. Raylan’s first thought was that Winona hadn’t finished yelling at him, but the voice at the door wasn’t Winona’s. 

_“You’re an asshole.”_

Although it shared her sentiments of men, presently.

“Hey… you.” 

“You’re a fucking asshole, Tim.”

“I agree. You’ll hear no arguments here.” Tim sucked in a breath, slow, contemplative. “Why am I an asshole?”

“You slept with my boyfriend.”

“Who’s your boyfriend?”

A beat, and Raylan could hear the disbelief harbored by Tim’s visitor. “Xander.”

Tim was laughing now. “That’s a dumb fucking name, no I didn’t.” He sobered, gave the accusation some thought. “When?”

“ _Two days ago._ You picked him up at a bar. You went home with him.”

“What’s he look like? Signature move? I need details, man.” 

“Fuck you,” the visitor spat. Raylan, who figured he’d heard enough of the conversation, exited the bathroom for his bedroom. He didn’t make his journey unnoticed. _“Who the fuck is that?”_

Tim turned, like he’d forgotten Raylan entirely and was surprised to see him, himself. “I work with him.”

The visitor was quiet for a moment, appraising Raylan harshly. “I thought you didn’t _do_ that.”

Tim was all inebriated easiness and smiles. “Doesn’t mean I don’t try.” 

Raylan had already closed his door to the matter, figuratively and literally, so he didn’t hear the sorry drop in Tim’s voice. Not like it had gone to his throat, like before, but to his gut, empty save for the contents of the bottle he’d polished off. 

Tim continued, “Look, if you say so--I’m sorry. You tell me what he looks like, I promise I won’t do it again.”

“You’re an _asshole._ ”

“We’ve established this.” 

“And a slut.” 

Tim snorted at that. “If I’m meant to take offense, I must be a teenage girl, too.” 

“And you’re drunk!”

“Not nearly enough,” Tim corrected. Then, in a sotto voice, he ventured, “You wanna come inside?”

The visitor made a noise of complete and utter derision, then continued in what Raylan--still accidentally eavesdropping--deemed a vocal anomaly of emphasizing every other word, “I’m not _sleeping_ with you, _asshole_.”

“Your boyfriend did.”

There was a snap, then a thud. A body hitting the floor. 

If Tim was getting a beat down, Raylan wanted in. He tore out of his bedroom only to see the aggravated visitor stammer an apology and then disappear out the front, leaving Tim a sputtering, laughing mess on the floor. Blood had spilt across his face, coming from either his nose or lip, Raylan wasn’t entirely sure. Tim swallowed some, then spit it up as he turned to his side. 

Figuring it was poor form to leave a man to drown in his own foyer, Raylan stooped to help Tim up. Joe snapped and barked like he thought the blood on Tim’s face, not the man at the door, was the real threat. 

“No," Tim said through a mouthful of blood, "just leave me here.”

Raylan secured a hand under Tim's armpit and lifted him off the floor, hearing a little grunt of relief as the blood pooling in Tim’s mouth dribbled down his shirt front. “Don’t be morose.”

Blood now streaming out his nose as Raylan helped him to his feet and into the kitchen, Tim insisted, “I ain’t morose, I’m a fuckin’ delight.” He had a wild, red-toothed grin going to make his case.

Tim gathered himself and found the nearest dish towel hung over the sink faucet, held it under his nose, and let it swell red and full. 

Raylan watched him, amused. “That an ex of yours?”

“Who, that guy? Naw, I’m seeing him later.” Tim spat a wet, red glob into the sink and rinsed it away. Deciding the toilet was a better disposal for his bodily fluids--it had never failed him before--Tim left the kitchen in favor of the bathroom, and Raylan trailed slowly behind. 

“Can ah help you wit’ something?” Tim said, exchanging the rag for a mass of toilet paper.

“Still waiting on an answer,” Raylan explained, coolly lifting his chin to indicate Tim’s long-gone visitor. “I find that whole… assault of a federal officer thing comes in handy for the darndest things.” 

Tim wondered if Raylan was genuinely offering to flash his badge and exact some revenge on Tim’s behalf, or if Tim had amassed a concussion as well as a swollen nose and split lip.

“He’s an asshole,” Tim said in a tone that suggested that was _all he was,_ and not worth the effort to run him down. He tossed a mass of soiled tissues into the toilet and collected a clean load. Whether it was the alcohol or knock to the head that had loosened his tongue, Tim wasn’t sure. He kept talking. “Met him a while back. He was so fucking weird about it, wanted the--the fantasy, right? Army Ranger boyfriend shit. Lick my boot, private. What an asshole.” 

“What did _you_ want?” Raylan asked--surprised Tim had answered him at all, let alone so freely.

Tim didn’t appear to be bucking that trend anytime soon. He tilted his head back and felt warm blood stream down the back of his throat. “Something to do.” 

If ever he was going to press his luck, Raylan decided, it would be now. Tim was drunk, his blood left in an elaborate trail from the front door to his shirt to the kitchen sink to the toilet. It was sad in a way incomparable to the sight of Tim in that very bathroom, some time ago, expressionlessly mourning the loss of a pet. And Raylan was sorry to see this spectacle, too, in a way he didn’t feel was normal.

Raylan leaned against the doorframe. 

“What _do_ you want?”

Tim blinked tiredly. It was not a coordinated affair. “You.” 

He sucked in a breath and screwed his eyes shut, like he’d taken a powerful whiff of those bath salts the _kids today_ were using to get high and hurl themselves off the roofs of their parents’ homes. “Whoa, fuck. No. Ha ha, no. Fuckin’... fuck no.” 

“Good comeback,” Raylan said, a little concerned. "Pithy." He’d like to be leaving, but Tim looked like he was going to be physically ill.

Tim dropped inelegantly at the side of the toilet, and leaned his head crudely against the perpetually lifted seat. The stream of blood out of his nose had largely stopped, but the odd droplet reached the toilet bowl. “I want somebody to stay in the other fucking room.” 

Raylan felt his gut do a somersault as he thought dully that maybe Tim had been hoping for something more with his moving in. 

“Not _you_ ,” Tim spat. “You’re terrible.” 

Raylan chuckled and dropped a hand to Tim’s shoulder, suring him up against the toilet. As if on cue, Tim lurched forward and heaved, expelling the mostly liquid contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl. Beer and bourbon and blood hit with a powerful splash.

Raylan grimaced; he never did like the sound of sick. For himself, Raylan preferred the _get drunk, pass out_ method of madness, with fighting or fucking neatly fit along the spectrum of his evening. But apparently Tim didn’t share that luxury, tonight. 

Raylan bent, opened the cabinet below the sink, and fetched a washcloth. He wet it with the bath faucet because he could keep a hand on Tim easier than he would have, going for the sink. He handed it off to Tim, who spat a final time into the toilet, then sat back. He wiped a clean stripe down the front of his face, concentrating last ridding his mouth of vomit and blood. 

It was amazing how normal he looked after being sick, even with the bruised and bloodied lip. Raylan supposed that’s how it was with most unpleasant things: some people carried ill tidings around like a virus inhabiting their insides; others expelled the demons and were cured. 

“How you feeling? You good?”

“Spectacular,” Tim said, and flushed his night’s work away. 

Thinking about what Tim wanted, it slowly dawned on Raylan that he was often on the other side of that equation, going home with women he knew would let him stay around. Ava, because she’d always had a thing for him. Winona, because again and again, she saw flashes of the good and decent lawman Raylan once had every intention of being. Lindsey, maybe the shrewdest of them all, because she saw through Raylan and into her endgame. 

“What’d you expect, anyhow?” Raylan asked, hoping he’d gain some insight. “Sooner or later someone you get into bed with would ask about the room across from yours?”

“Yes, obviously.” Tim waved a hand, but Raylan couldn’t figure if he was indicating himself or the house. “This is prime real estate.”

Tim stared at Raylan, figuring his game and refusing to play it. “You don’t get it.”

 _No,_ Raylan agreed, he didn’t. But he got the feeling he was about to, if ever that third bedroom in Winona’s new house ever came into play. 

Tim lifted himself up and away from the toilet, then summoned a wry smile. “Hey, so how’s your night been?”

“Well, I got jilted on a blowjob,” Raylan teased good-naturedly.

“Things are rough all over,” Tim agreed.

Tim washed his face over the sink, inspected the nasty cut to his upper lip, then his teeth, ensuring none were chipped. He’d expected to be popped in the face, but maybe not so forcefully. Tim supposed he’d had a hand in antagonizing his assailant, however, so maybe what he’d got was deserved. He saw Raylan in the mirror, stalled behind him. Tim held his gaze a moment, forcing Raylan out of the man’s imagined invisibility. 

“I’ve been talking with Winona,” Raylan said. “I might be giving you your space sooner than expected.”

“Yeah?” Tim turned to face Raylan, not the least bit surprised _this_ was where Raylan’s mind was at after their little exchange on the couch during overtime in the Dolphins game (which sounded like the best-worst plot to amatuer gay porn Tim could imagine, and he hated that such an observation would be wasted on his present company). Tim might have entertained the idea that it was a lie--a bit of gay panic Raylan wouldn’t feel good about admitted to--but Raylan was a better liar than that, and he wouldn’t look so frustrated about it, to boot. 

The knock to the head had sobered Tim up some, so he was able to engage in the conversation, some, although he’d likely need a refresher in the morning. “That’s good. When, do you think?”

Raylan folded his arms across his chest and shrugged a shoulder. “Well, about three week ago, give or take.”

Tim stared, confused. “What.”

“A while back, we looked at a house, she liked it, and… it’s like making a baby. Now I’ve got a mortgage.” He cocked his head some, unnerved by Tim’s blank stare. “Decided to stick around a while more, though. Rightly figured you might need someone to hold your hair.” He grinned. “I’m a regular Eve Monroe.”

Tim leveled Raylan with a steely glare. Slow and sure, Tim gave an order: “Get your shit, get your dog, and go.”

Raylan chanced a smile. “You’re kidding.” 

Tim wasn’t. He also wasn’t going to repeat himself. 

“You’re serious?”

Raylan, curiously enough, had never been kicked out before. He’d been left high and dry a number of times, and he was fairly surprised by how similar the two felt. He stood stalled in the kitchen, not willing to go a step further to comply with Tim’s demands. He didn’t _want_ to leave and, ergo, shouldn’t have to.

“What,” Tim drawled. “You want that blowjob now?” 

“If I did, I don’t doubt I could get it.”

Tim threw a punch. His fist connected with Raylan's jaw, so Raylan threw one in return, fist colliding with the opposite side of Tim’s face, but a little higher, so as to saddle him with a black eye to compliment his split lip. Tim landed another two in quick succession, but they were messy. For as much as he’d deposited into the toilet, there was still bourbon slogging through his veins, rolling into waves in his head. They exchanged blows until the flesh across their knuckles felt pulpy, each egged on by nothing more than the other man’s commitment to the brawl. 

Fists flew less discriminately and soon they were just a tangle of aching bodies on the living room floor. Joe was barking, confused and excited. He nosed his way in, thinking his owners were on his level because they meant to play with him. He got too close and Tim’s elbow accidentally flew into the dog’s side. He yelped in pain and scrambled away, disappearing into Raylan’s bedroom. Tim stilled. 

_“Oh, shit.”_

By this time in a beating, Raylan was usually going for his gun. In this instance, he merely managed to shove Tim away, and the hand that flew to his hip stayed there. 

Tim saw it. Stared at it. 

Raylan’s sidearm was closer to Tim than Raylan, tossed onto the tiny kitchen table with the blue lacquer finish and scuffed legs. Tim stood and picked it up, felt its weight in his bruised hand, and offered it to Raylan handle-first. Like Raylan, he took heavy, chest-heaving breaths.

Raylan didn’t accept it right away; he made Tim hold the thing, wait for Raylan to run the length of his forearm under his nose, collecting blood. “You’re a goddamn mess. Do you know that?”

Finally, Raylan took a long step forward and snatched his weapon out of Tim’s hand. 

It wasn’t the first time Tim had heard some variation of that question out of Raylan in recent months. Always gentler, with some joking undertones. Sometimes, Tim thought about answering honestly--only ever after the fact, of course. Never before, when he’s too busy spitting out some easy remark that jettisoned him off and away from the matter entirely. He was too fucking smart to miss that ride. 

Raylan disappeared into his bedroom to gather his belongings. There were fewer things than he imagined he’d have after eight months of living in a place, but everything his eyes were drawn to--the bedsheets, furniture, books--were all Tim’s. Even the duffel bag Raylan was throwing his shirts and jeans into belonged to Tim. 

Tim stood in the living room, watchful. After settling up, Raylan would have to face him. 

His nose and lip had started bleeding again. There was a nasty cut into his brow courtesy of Raylan’s gaudy ring, and his right eye felt warm and prickled, like it alone ached for sleep. Tim didn’t seem mindful of any of that. Instead, his focus was on Raylan’s bedroom door, and the dog whining beyond it. 

“Is he okay?” 

Raylan didn’t answer him, but Tim saw for himself that Joe was only shaken by the ordeal, and not deeply wounded. He followed at Raylan’s feet as the older Marshal left the bedroom with a heavy duffel bag secured across one shoulder. 

“I don’t want to fuck you, Tim,” Raylan said, angry and harsh and gesturing with his hand like he wanted Tim to focus on some integral detail. “Or fuck with you. I didn’t go with Winona right away because I thought, after all the shit at work, maybe,” Raylan stopped, fed up with babying a grown man. “Well, Christ, just look at yourself.”

"Yeah,” Tim said, wetting his lips and tasting warm blood. “I'm the fuck-up. Living in my own fucking house like some kind of asshole.” 

Raylan gave a huff of laughter, dry and humorless. “Great,” he drawled, intent on having the last word. “So we have a consensus.” 

Raylan took his leave giving Tim _that look,_ like he knew any fucking better just because he’d seen Tim come home late or browse gay porn on his computer or send off a one night stand with a plate of eggs and not a fucking tickertape parade. Watching his retreating form, Tim wanted to turn Raylan around and punch him in the face again, to send him off knowing _fuck no motherfucker, I haven’t fucked up since I was seventeen. Can you say that?_

Tim closed his eyes, listened to Raylan’s car start and pull out of his driveway. 

That wasn’t even what they were talking about. 

Tim carried out the same routine from earlier: washing the blood from his mouth and face, getting a drink, getting drunk. He sat on the couch, alone this time.

It hurt to drink with his split lip, but enough of the good stuff took care of that. 

If there was any crushing embarrassment to be felt after his offer to Raylan and their bloody parting, Tim wasn’t up for feeling it. He took a moment to indulge in having ended something monumentally stupid--that is, thinking a favor to Raylan Givens would result in anything other than bloodshed. Still, the evening’s turn did give Tim pause. 

Getting off was the last thing on his mind in Afghanistan. His brothers, the mission, it all came first. When he spared a thought for himself, it was usually along the lines of when he’d last slept or shit or been to the McDonalds on base. 

Tim thought about all the leeway he had in civilian life, and wondered if that made him a worse person in some respects. He shouldn’t be able to do the things he wanted, was Tim’s bottom line. Anything good, he never wanted badly enough. 

Tim padded through his empty house with a full bottle of something to take the awful taste out of his mouth--vomit or Raylan, he wasn’t quite sure. 

\- 

Raylan took a page from Tim’s playbook and brought nothing of their previous evening into work, save a few cuts and bruises. It didn’t help that Tim had a matching set, but cases took them separate ways, sparing them any forced explanations. Still, the prospect was daunting enough that Tim gave it some serious thought, deciding at length that such behavior was a departure from what he’d strived for since joining the Marshal Service. 

While eyeing the pink, split skin of his knuckles, Tim took stock of what he had, the good and the bad: a nice little house, a good job, a few friends, a lot of problems. But they were his problems, and he didn’t trouble his friends with them. At least, he didn’t used to. 

And _that_ was Tim’s sticking point. His shit should not follow him everywhere or sit as a bruise on someone else’s face. That, moreso than getting blown by someone who was more cashmere sweater than man, ought to be the embarrassment Tim warded off.

It was a difficult conclusion to meet, but Tim decided he needed to get over what he’d lost--buddies, any sense of security, his mind. He left behind, too, the thing he had with Hank, and all the other relationships that only existed when convenient. By extension, that meant losing the social lubricants that meshed the two--no more anonymous sex, no more drinking. 

Tim made these plans quietly, meticulously strategizing his efforts.

But it was in actually trying to stop--like he had so easily with smoking--that Tim realized he couldn’t. 

His own decision not to drink terrorized him and demoralized him and he was back to it, frighteningly fast. The excuses came just as quickly--the idea that he could give up a few things, but not everything, _no, not everything, that ain’t fair. That’s not healthy._

For a while, he regressed to a dangerous place--some seventeen-year-old headspace that found no fault in giving himself up to a life that hardly acknowledged his own presence, values, or choices. He filled himself up with all the vices he’d identified, fearful that losing them would leave him wayward and completely empty. 

Then it happened like Tim figured it happened for anybody: In the pit of all that, he got himself up and to a meeting. He sat in the back. He didn’t speak a word. He kept going to AA meetings just to hear someone tell him not to drink. 

He failed. Again and again, he fucked up and went to bars. Tim never bought cases at the grocery, though, because he never planned ahead to drink. But driving home after work, that’s just where he’d end up. Between work and home, there was no one to question his absence. 

For Tim, it was bars and AA meetings in near equal measure. 

\- 

It wasn’t even his last resort. It was so far _beyond_ his last resort that volunteering for all the prisoner transports through dry counties sounded so profoundly preferable to what he was actually doing. 

Tim was planning to ask for some time off work. Being caught with his pants down and his dick swallowed up was practically winning the lottery compared to presenting Art with the paperwork and affirming the requested departure period: two months. 

At precisely 4:59pm, Tim brought the rolled up pages into Art’s office, unfurled them, and handed them off to the Chief Deputy. Art, who was on a roll signing off on office supplies and ammo, stalled his pen over the pages. 

“What am I even looking at, here.”

“USMS Request for Leave or Approved Absence,” Tim said, reading the form’s bold heading for Art’s benefit. He stipulated shortly, “Sick leave.” 

“Are the other children not playing nice?” Art said, misplacing the source of Tim’s request. “Is that--”

“Medical documentation is attached,” Tim cut him off, not giving credence even to _the idea_ that he was being edged out because he couldn’t hold his own against some hushed name-calling or disapproving looks. He flipped to the last page in the stack, knowing Art’s doubts would end once he saw official documentation from the Lexington VA hospital. 

Art read the brief, but it didn’t make sense to him. Reading further didn’t help.

“Tim, I want an explanation--”

“You’re supposed to read and sign off on it,” Tim cut in. “I won’t bring it up again if you don’t.” 

Art folded his arms flat over the documents, steepled his hands. “Sounds unimportant, then.”

Tim remained unfazed. “If you say so.”

Tim left, knowing Art wouldn’t dismiss the matter without giving it his due attention. Still, Art couldn’t fathom where the request was even coming from. He called Raylan in after the fact, who quickly made his thoughts clear about consulting on a _Tim Issue_ , given he was kicked out of the man’s place. Art turned the form so that Raylan could read it. In his own non-emotive way, Raylan seemed surprised. 

“Is this because the boyfriend left?” Art had figured as much. Why his youngest Deputy hadn’t saw fit to affirm that little fact, Art didn’t know. His eldest daughter had always done the same thing--he never knew whether the girl was on the crest of engagement or had a break up. She hardly spilled a detail. 

“Nope,” Raylan hazarded a guess, “It’s because after that, he stopped drinking.”

Art gave a tired sigh and reclined in his chair. “Well, _hell._ He could have just said so.” 

Art signed the forms.

-

Tim stayed late to tidy his desk, figuring they’d need a replacement--maybe even a new hire. Staring at the empty desktop, Tim had a realization. He went to Art again and blandly asked if firing him would be simpler. 

“Well, yeah.” Art said, leaning back and smoothing a hand over his bald head. “But I like you, Tim. You know how to make coffee and file things. You can’t teach that shit to just anyone.” 

He looked his Deputy up and down, thought the kid could use a drink, but knew better than to offer. He bid him inside, anyway. 

Tim dropped into one of the chairs flanking Art’s desk and said what he’d meant to, earlier. 

“This is deeply unprofessional--”

“You’ve kind of been on a roll with that lately, huh?”

“--And I apologize for the late notice.” Tim ended on a flat note. “Aw, man,” he drawled. “I keep forgetting how funny that still is.”

Art smirked, waved a hand. _Don’t worry about it._ “I’ll see you in two months. I’d like sooner, if you don’t mind me stopping by. Will you be around?”

Tim nodded absently, said, “I applied to this program at the VA,” then couldn’t figure out what came next. _I hope it works?_

Art had read the form thoroughly and knew what Tim was in for. “Good, Tim.”

Tim thought so, too.

\- 

Tim left the program early. Six weeks, and he couldn’t even hack it through two. He couldn't stand to hear another horror story, then be expected to share his own piddly-shit notions of loss. Or worse--try and explain why he was more haunted by the shots he’d taken in Kentucky with the Marshal’s Service than those he’d doled out in Afghanistan.

And selfishly, Tim didn’t want to hear such profound regret and glom onto it, fill his own heart up with the shit he ought to be feeling, the anger and the self-hate, just to put himself on equal footing with the others. After a week of listening, Tim realized something: he didn’t feel any of that. He couldn’t. And he didn’t want to.

After expressing these doubts in private, the program leaders assured him progress on all fronts--naming and understanding his issues, and then confronting them--would come in due time. That was when the group broke for lunch. Half an hour later, Tim found himself wetting his lips and readying to speak to those gathered--fellow veterans and mental health professionals alike--for the first time in nine days.

“I'm sorry,” he told the group sincerely when he couldn't put off talking anymore. “I'm in the wrong meeting.”

He left, found a bar, had a drink. Had another. A friendly face with blue eyes and five o’clock shadow bought him the next, and Tim couldn’t say no to that. Then he left, went driving until he saw a church with too many cars parked in its lot for the given hour. 

With the burning taste of bourbon still on his lips, he tried AA again-- _really tried._

\- 

\- 

\- 

On a warm Sunday morning when Tim drove through an up-and-coming housing development, he saw that Winona was watching her child stumble around their full, grassy lawn. Raylan was sat on the porch, watching them and now--watching Tim as he slowed to a stop at their mailbox. Tim wished he could have just driven on past, but that wasn’t an option. Raylan had sat up, adjusted his hat to better see their visitor, and stood when he realized it was Tim. 

Tim looked like he might have just come from work--black jeans, a clean shirt, hair neat and swept back--but he wasn't wearing his badge or sidearm. Raylan thought he looked incomplete. 

Tim stood by his SUV and gave a short, awkward wave--mostly for Winona’s benefit. 

“Got your chair,” he called from the curb. Sure enough, the buttery-soft leather recliner was fit into the back of his SUV. As though he was wary of the approach, he did not make one untoward step until Winona bid him forward, a smile claiming her face. 

Without a word, Raylan helped Tim carry it inside, unloading it at Winona’s direction. 

Joe ran into them, jumping excitedly at Tim, then raced on past through the open front door, into the yard and then back around the side of the house.

“Get a fence or something,” Tim said, frowning at how close the dog had made it to the street.

Raylan smirked at that. “Winona bought an electric one. It’s safe.”

Tim shelved his arms across his chest, then finally made eye-contact with Raylan. “Well how about that.” 

\- 

Winona insisted she and Raylan at least try and be hospitable, given all Tim had done for them. 

Raylan played up his displeasure. “I just got away from this asshole. I don’t want him thinking he’s welcome here, anytime.” 

After favoring Tim with an appraising look, Raylan suddenly realized what was missing. Then, almost like an afterthought, Raylan called over his shoulder to Winona’s retreating form, “We got any of that sweet tea left?”

He very pointedly did not look at Tim after that remark. He didn’t need the confirmation; Raylan knew he was right in this respect.

Winona was laughing as she returned from the kitchen, overly pleased with herself. “Look at this shit. _Look at it._ ” On a wicker tray she’d assembled two tall glasses of sweet tea, fat ice cubes clinking at the slightest movements, and two pieces of gooey pecan pie. “Is that not some Martha Stewart shit right there? God, I amaze myself.” She bent to plant a kiss on Raylan’s smirking mouth. While making her leave, she dropped a hand to Tim’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Enjoy. Tim, thank you for bringing the chair.” 

Raylan waited until she’d gone before assuring Tim, “This… doesn’t happen. This is not how I live.”

“You must be in hell,” Tim said, smirking around a bite of pie. 

“I keep waiting to wake up,” Raylan said, taking up a fork. “I didn’t even know we had pie.” 

Tim, uncomfortable in the _his and her_ rocking chairs sat nice and neat on the porch, moved to lean against the wood beams and minimal railing. It put the sun at his back, warm with the promise of spring. 

Being away had afforded Tim some sense of decorum--or maybe it was learned behavior after so many years in the military that, without provocation, had him mumbling some vague updates he’d deemed important. 

He quit smoking again, was trying to quit a few other things, and had got another cat. (“Really?” “Told you, I didn’t want a dog.”) 

Despite the positive assurances (although in truth, Raylan didn’t see a viceless life as a positive development), Tim didn’t look especially well. Time off from alcohol, like work, left Tim more time with himself. As a result, he seemed more tired, stressed… listless around the eyes, like he couldn’t stand to be awake. Raylan remembered that look in his mother’s face, distant and vague though it was in his memory. His Aunt Helen had some backwoods term for it-- _a dark spell, a mood_ \--but in hindsight, Raylan knew she’d been clinically depressed. Or would have been, if Harlan ever had a clinic that trafficked in anything more than Oxy and do-it-yourself morphine drips. 

For Tim, giving up the booze, sex, and smoking wasn’t a solution. It was just a thing to do. Tim did it with as little enthusiasm possible.

“I stopped by your place a while back. Looked vacant.” Raylan didn’t let on to the sinking feeling he’d had, seeing the empty driveway and lifeless house, or the fact that he not only called Art asking after Tim, but also Tim’s former landlord. 

“Yeah,” Tim said, squinting to see a pair of bicyclers down the block. “I moved out. Got an apartment.” He chanced a smile, adding, “Two blocks from the office.”

Raylan shook his head in disbelief. “This time next year, they’re going to be renting out the evidence room to you, aren’t they?”

“I’d make a grab at some office space.” 

“Dream big.”

They picked at their slices of pie, at a loss for what it was they were meant to speak about. Neither had seen the other outside of work since Raylan moved out, plus Tim’s requested time off put him completely off the Marshal Service’s radar, Raylan’s included. All the things he knew about Tim out of sheer proximity all seemed to fall by the wayside after just a few short months apart. 

“Two bedrooms,” Raylan asked lightly, “Your apartment?”

“Sorry, freeloader, just the one.” _If that._ The place was a shithole, to be expected for the low price. Tim thought it was a necessary change, however. There’d be no bringing anyone home; even the horniest man alive would know better than to chance contracting tetanus on one of the rusty nails protruding from the doorframe. Begging off the interest, Tim posed Raylan a question: “Trouble in electric-fence paradise?”

“Just me,” Raylan said, laying on the charm thick and smooth. In that same vein, he was able to issue what they both knew was a lie: “You look good, Tim. I’d like to think a man can really change himself.”

“Nothing’s changed.” The words flew out of Tim’s mouth faster than he could think of some smartass thing to say. He took a moment and finished the thought, keeping with the dull, incessant honesty so instilled in him through AA. “I still wanna do all the shit I don’t do.”

Maybe Raylan recognized the tone--or heard the uneasy current beneath it. Tim wasn’t going to fuck with him, not now. Raylan raised his glass to the notion of trying, _always trying,_ not to fuck up. “Fortitude and power of will. I knew it was something I wouldn’t like.” 

Tim traded his empty plate for the glass of sweet tea, giving it a sniff first to be certain Winona didn’t make hers the same way Tim made his--with a little something extra. “Purpose, too.” 

That piqued Raylan’s interest. It didn’t sound like Tim was ending the line of questioning--but rather, encouraging it. 

The three pairs of shoes by the door--Winona’s strappy sandals, the baby’s little sneakers, and Raylan’s dusty boots--did not escape Tim’s notice, nor Raylan’s notice of Tim’s notice. Maybe it wasn’t the whole set that Raylan was attached to, but certainly two out of three. But Tim’s purpose was a genuine mystery. 

“Purpose, huh? What’s yours?”

“Third Hobbit movie,” Tim said easily. “If we’re getting personal.” 

_Well if that’s the case…_

Raylan left the chair and joined Tim at the porch railing, looking out over his too-green lawn. “I take it the program’s going well?”

“Dropped out,” Tim answered, surprising Raylan with honesty that didn’t reflect well upon himself. “Wasn’t for me.” He smiled, easy and sure. “I’m more of a run-of-the-mill-alcoholic. Most trauma I’ve known is to my liver.” 

It wasn’t true--both of them knew that--but it also wasn’t a point on which Raylan was willing to argue. What was there to say, really? _No, Tim, you’ve surely got bigger problems._

"Don't tell Art, though," Tim said. "VA is supposed to inform Marshal Service if I exit the program, but they're backed up worse than a chili-fed asshole, so I figure I got a couple weeks more of paid sick leave 'fore anyone gets wise." 

“Commendable plan,” Raylan said. “You got anything else going on? Teaching Sunday school, maybe?”

“You don't have to wear a white hat to make people think you're a saint.” _You’ve just got to shoot the right people._

The look on Raylan’s face gave Tim pause, thinking maybe he’d spoken his last point aloud. 

“Well,” Tim said, “I just came here for the pie.”

He started down the porch steps and back to his car. Winona called out to him, halting his retreat. She gave Tim a hug and dropped an expectant look on Raylan, like this was what he _did,_ now. He changed diapers and hugged people. 

On Raylan’s grassy front lawn, in front of God and Winona and probably their voyeur neighbors, the Ruttheimers, Raylan hugged Tim. More than that--he _held_ Tim. 

“You’re all right,” Raylan told him. Informed him. 

“Oh, god, is this a proposal?” Tim said, sarcastic and dry like he didn’t know what the hell Raylan was on about. Hands immediately stuffed into his pockets, Tim did.

He nodded and took his leave. “You kids play nice. Raylan, sorry for trying to suck your dick that one time. All right.” 

Winona smiled, unfazed by what she presumed was an obvious joke. “He’s such a weird little man.”

Raylan coughed. “Yep.” 

\- 

Pulling out of the dreamy little cul-de-sac, Tim thought about getting a drink or going to a meeting, dismissed both notions, and changed course in favor of a worse addiction.

Tim drove home--not to his apartment, where parking was scarce and his neighbors were loud, but to the little house backed against woods and quiet. 

He parked, rounded the house, and climbed the stairs to the deck. The keys were warm in his hand, but he chose not to enter. 

Tim stared across the yard, saw the empty corners and heavy treeline, the sky swept with a haze of gray clouds over a dusty pink sunset. He sat against the house, his back flush with the exterior wall of his bedroom--O’Brien’s bedroom--and he imagined himself about the height O’Brien had been, curled and hunched and hungry for a bullet. Tim pictured the exit wound, the damage done to the wall as not only splatter, but a ruined paintjob, some splintered wood. In his mind, he willed a more powerful weapon, maybe his own sidearm, and he saw the hole expand. And the bullet split his skull, next, because he’d been waiting for it outside. 

Tim had been stateside for only a few months by that time, just out of Glencoe. O’Brien had three _years_ under his belt. What he’d done stole from Carrie her husband and best friend, from their girls… a loving father. But Carrie was strong willed and resilient, and told Tim that next night through a neverending stream of silent tears that there was still a good future for her girls, that she didn’t understand what O’Brien had done, but knew in her heart he hadn’t wanted to hurt them. 

Tim could only nod along. 

Carrie intuited so much from O’Brien’s suicide ( _“He was reaching out for help. He wanted to be better. He was so scared.”_ ), but Tim, who’d been looking O’Brien square in the eye as he failed to act, only heard one thing in that calamitous single shot: the initiation of a countdown. 

_Three years._

Tim’s were up. 

A car pulled up. Tim listened to the driver’s approach, his gait, the crush of his shoes against cool earth. Boots. 

Not like Tim knew them best, but--boots all the same. 

Tim scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling that the flesh of his cheeks was warm and streaked with tears. He usually didn’t allow himself to think about O’Brien in such detail--if ever. Tim dried his eyes in the crook of his right elbow, took a steadying breath, regained his composure. He felt as though there was a fire burning in his chest, singeing his insides and filling up his lungs with smoke and heat and hurt. He tried to stand in anticipation of the approaching footsteps, but his boots merely scraped across the old wooden planks of the deck, producing a weak whine. He dropped his head against the outside of his house, thirsty for a drink.

His arm--now free of any bandages--itched. There was a scar too low to be hidden by the sleeves of his t-shirt, but it was a nice, neat line. Because of its needle thin presentation, Tim thought it itched all the more; a cover-up job, and beneath the pristine stitching was something ugly to mirror the deed. 

Tim saw Raylan’s hat, first, climbing the stairs atop the man’s head. 

Next thing he saw was the fine bottle of bourbon Raylan was clutching by its neck. Tim sat up a little straighter, his feet suddenly given to better traction. 

“This ain’t for you,” Raylan specified, situating himself next to Tim on the bare porch, putting the bottle down at his side where Tim couldn’t easily reach for it. 

Tim stared like he could see right through Raylan. “That’s a lot to drink, just yourself.”

Lobbing him a smart look, Raylan reminded: “Last we shared a bottle, things didn’t turn out so good.”

Tim’s sloppy advances returned vividly to the forefront of his mind like a bad dream. In the back of his mouth he tasted that night again, and for a moment occupied the drunken mindset that spearheaded the whole notion. That night was _such a fucking embarrassment_ , yet all Tim could remember was feeling that shame roll hotter in his chest than any good feeling ever did. 

But he couldn’t say all that--because _fuck_ telling Raylan the sort of thing he couldn’t bring himself to say in group--so he just shrugged and scratched an eyebrow and said, “Yeah. Sorry.”

Raylan was grinning, maybe because he gathered all of this or, just as likely, because he had no idea. “Naw. It was an illuminating experience.” He patted the bottle at his side. “This is ‘cause I’m worried about you, and didn’t know how to show up and just say so.” 

Raylan at least sounded like a complete jackass, _saying so,_ which made Tim feel a little better. Like they were on equal footing, somehow, despite Tim’s problems and Raylan’s upbringing and whatever else existed to ruin what might have once been just two people. 

“Don’t open it,” Tim said, looking down at his shoes. “I will throw you off this goddamn porch if you open it.”

“That bad, huh?” Raylan’s attempt at a joke fell flat.

“At the moment,” Tim admitted tiredly.

Raylan nodded, slow and silent. He stared out at the same view Tim had, and quickly realized he had a fondness for the place he’d never quite admitted to himself beyond the superficial benefits--a short drive to and from work, spacious, mostly empty. There was something else, too, which so easily drew Tim back into its shadow. “What is it about this place?”

“My friend died here,” Tim answered. There was an unusual thickness to his voice, like Tim was unearthing the words one by one out of cold and sodden ground. “Got it in my head that I might, too.”

Raylan frowned. “Christ, I wish you were still drinking.” To his far right, Raylan noticed Tim’s potted cactus hadn’t made the cut in Tim’s move--and nor had the crumpled box of cigarettes and green plastic lighter. Raylan gave the box a little shake. “These a no-go?”

Tim lifted and turned his head, his expression falling immediately into one of absolute relief. “Fuck, no. Gimmie one.” 

Raylan was doubtful, but ultimately surrendered to Tim what was his. 

“I can quit again,” Tim assured, lighting up. 

“If it helps to feel like a fuck-up in similar company,” Raylan started, then trailed off. 

Tim’s mouth around his first cigarette in over two months was _obscene._ “Winona?”

Raylan shook his head, long and slow. “Just me,” he repeated.

It was just as Tim had called it: Raylan’s little family within reach, but he couldn’t close the deal. He didn’t want it badly enough, or maybe at all. He was too old to be still trying to figure that out, which suggested that he wasn’t still trying, only prolonging failure. “I don’t know why I don’t,” he caught himself, certain he was on the verge of speaking a deeply awful truth. 

Tim expelled a long drag. “You can have a drink, if you want.”

A kind offer, but Raylan hadn’t known what he was thinking bringing the bourbon, anyway. “Might try one of these,” he said, taking up the little carton sat between them. 

“They’re not nearly as good,” Tim warned, letting Raylan bum a cigarette anyway. 

Raylan took a drag like he was born to do it-- _of course._ Tim chewed the inside of his lip, fighting a smile as he couldn’t shake the visual: all denim, long legs, and boots, Raylan looked like the Marlboro man. But Tim smoked L &M because nobody liked them and they were easy to steal from convenience stores when he was young. 

“Sorry,” Tim said. His eyes traveled up as he considered the timeframe for his due apology. “For the past… year. I don’t do this. I’m not this,” he served up a hand, open and empty. _Crazy._

“Really?” Raylan ribbed, doubtful. “A year sounds like a mighty long phase.” 

“Well I know a guy who sure as shit ain’t from Texas, but he’s been wearing a hat that says otherwise near about a decade.” Tim grinned. “How’s that for a phase?”

Raylan adjusted his hat, ceding the point. 

They sat outside on the deck, silent, until daylight passed and they were spelled in dusty blue light. Raylan may have enjoyed the respite away from his new home, but Tim had only one thought weighing down his presence: the look of bourbon with light against the bottle, spilling in. It reminded him of old money and Jurassic Park, all obscenely glowing amber. 

But a bottle in the dark could be anything. Could be cat piss. 

Tim sat up, stretched his limbs. “You still got your key?”

“Oh, shit. Yeah, somewhere--” Raylan muscled up the wall, all too comfortable and lazy. He pawed at his jeans pockets. 

“Keep it.”

“Don’t think the new owners would be game for that, Tim,” Raylan said, continuing his search. “Jesus, what’s in your cigarette?”

“I’m the owner,” Tim said. “It’s my house. Made an offer, bought it. Living in a different shitbox, but, yeah.” Raylan had produced the key and, with it, a blank look on his face. “It’s yours when you need it.” 

It was a tempting offer--the promise of pizza and football and quiet--except Raylan knew it wouldn’t be that way again, ever, and not least of all because he wasn’t deserving of it. “Naw, Tim. It’s yours. Both rooms.” 

Tim shook his head dismissively. “I’m going to rent it out. College kids, Yvonne’s friends, or guys I know.” Tim gifted himself a second cigarette, then wrinkled his nose as he took its first taste. “Won’t be as sexy as it sounds.” 

Raylan smirked. “Yeah, but what are the odds of me stopping by again, and actually getting a blowjob?”

Tim spoke out of one corner of his mouth, “What’d’ya know, it’s _still_ funny.”

He started down the steps and Raylan followed, sharing as an afterthought, “Winona thinks we’re friends.”

Tim threw him a disapproving look. “Winona also thinks you’re not half bad.”

“I don’t know a single grown man who has friends,” Raylan mused.

“This is either very precious or very sad.” 

“Just making an observation.”

“My cat might be dumb,” Tim said. “He sleeps on his face. Nose to ears, flat on the floor. Breathes funny.” 

Raylan made a face, snorted. “Okay? The fuck?”

In a faux-seriousness that confirmed to Raylan that Tim’s bizarre sense of humor was _not in the least_ dependent on his alcohol intake, Tim told him severely, “Friends tell each other things, Raylan. Way to drop the ball.” 

Tim took a last drag from his cigarette. “You heading home?” Because, as he'd learned, it was still a matter of some uncertainty. 

“Yeah.” Raylan rounded his car, then paused. Same went for Tim. “You?”

Tim’s gaze dropped to the bottle in Raylan’s hands, then back, so quickly the act was near imperceptible. He let what was left of his second cigarette fall to the smooth cement of his driveway and crushed it under his boot.

“Yeah. In a bit.”

“You ever going to drag your lazy ass back to work?” Raylan’s car door was open and his lithe frame was draped throughout the corner, elbow loosely folded over the door, hips dropped at an angle, long legs bent at the knee. For as perpetually tall and at ease as Raylan was, he always looked poised to crumple. Too fucking cool to be upright. 

Tim had to smile at him; couldn't help himself. 

“Yeah. In a bit.”

Tim waited for Raylan to leave before favoring his house with one last, appraising look in the coming dark. It was still a neat, tidy thing. Raylan calling it _vacant_ made it sound like an abandoned dump. But the lawn was kept; Tim had seen to that earlier in the week. The plants crowding the front were a little overgrown, taking kindly to the warmer months despite their winter preference. Tim stooped and picked up the remains of his cigarette, found a take-out bag in his SUV and disposed of it there. 

Tim remembered the place before it was leased to him, back when Carrie and her girls planted colorful flowers in the front, and dolls were sat in a circle on the porch for a forgotten tea party. It was the image Tim recalled from the television, after the police came and all the noise and excitement attracted the local news. Tim remembered having to flash his badge--not for the last time banking that no one would puzzle out he didn’t have the authority to dismiss the press--and direct news crews further down the street so as to allow the coroner’s van closer access.

He thought about that horrible night, not knowing what to do to console Carrie and her daughters. Sending them away with a lady police officer who had a kind voice and ready, gentle lie for the girls: _there’s been an accident._

Tim remembered scrubbing the wall clean after Lexington PD had given him the go-ahead, and then packing up Carrie’s things and the girls’ room when Carrie called him at two in the morning, her voice raw and weak, numbly informing Tim she wouldn’t step foot in that house ever again. Finishing that around six, Tim rented a small moving trailer and loaded it up. Then, smelling like bleach and sweat, Tim went to work. It was only his second week.

The rest of the day was a blur. The girls, still confused and dressed in their pajamas, were to ride to Wisconsin with Carrie’s brother. Tim shook his hand, helped attach the U-Haul trailer to his truck, and never once caught the man’s name. Carrie had changed her mind, wanted a few more days in Lexington, and stayed behind. She slept in the girls’ room while Tim, like he had the past week, took the couch. She cried the entire night, and Tim, listening, found he still couldn’t sleep. His gaze remained fixed on the closed bedroom door. 

Two days later, he saw Carrie off on a direct flight to Madison, Wisconsin. Two days after that, Tim ran over a cat. 

Intending only to stay and sort out Carrie’s financial affairs with the landlord, Tim found the pull of that empty bedroom too great. The hasty retreat of O’Brien’s family left a strange feeling to the place, like the air was constantly moving. Tim got it into his head that it wasn’t safe and he should stay behind, guard the wounded. 

Tim still thought of O’Brien that way, laying bloody and limp and scared on his bedroom floor.

Tim rolled his shoulders, thinking maybe this is what he could have mentioned in group. 

Stare still pinned to the house, Tim decided he didn’t like the word _vacant._ He locked his SUV and left it in the driveway, thinking it was a warm night, so why not walk to his apartment from his home? 

Tim hoped to return to it, eventually.


End file.
